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  • Born Restless

    The only constant emotion that I can recall in my life is restlessness. Perhaps it’s a state more than it is an emotion. I don’t care. The net effect remains the same. There is little that I can leave untouched. I have an incessant need to unravel issues that plague myself or others. I can’t let sleeping dogs lie (all puns intended). There are too many dogs that pretend to be asleep and in so doing they lie through their fangs in their efforts to garner social acceptance or admiration. They’re dogs, regardless of their pretenses.

    The heart of mental illnesses lies in society, and not in the brain. There is no chemical imbalance that can be righted in order for it to right the betrayals of society at large, and significant others at the least. So instead of contending with the elephant in the room, we’d much rather pretend that we have a mental illness to deal with. At times like this I feel mentally ill. The same restlessness creeps into every thought pattern and disrupts my focus leading to angsty drivel that aspires to become a meaningful post. But I know that this restlessness is not an illness. It’s simply the reality of my attempts to live consciously.

    We’re all alone. No matter how big our social circles may appear, deep down inside only we understand the gravity of being who we are, and what we fear. The social circles are just a distraction from this reality, but in no way erases that loneliness. It’s all just a distraction, but it’s a very effective distraction which is why we’re amusing ourselves to death, only to realise too late that we were in fact distracting ourselves from life. It’s therefore no surprise that avenues like social networking and technical gadgetry are increasingly popular to all generations and not just the young ‘uns any longer. We all need the distractions equally.

    The problem is not in the distractions, or how they’re being abused. Those are just symptoms. The true problem is in a society that sees the need for escape as being a mental illness. The problem lies in academics that lack any real life experiences but feel accomplished enough because of a piece of paper to pronounce their judgement on the mental state of others without even considering the reality of life. That’s why we have the ridiculously high levels of bipolar disorder that is diagnosed in all spectrums of society, let alone depression and so many other abused terms of mental illness.

    In a dysfunctional society it’s next to impossible to find a healthy support structure to avoid the temptation of labelling our mental states. Support structures are not synonymous with support groups, but are in fact the family structures and community networks that talk to the village raising a kid, rather than the village raising an idiot. The collective responsibility of society has long been abandoned in favour of individual appeasement and selfish goals.

    The restlessness I feel is born out of this same dysfunction. But according to many, I could successfully be diagnosed with a mental illness because I have an insatiable desire to see wholesome values and communal living that is morally grounded realised in my lifetime. Perhaps I am mad. Perhaps my restlessness is in fact insanity. Perhaps my desire for old school values is merely my distraction from a society that has evolved beyond such wholesomeness. Perhaps I am that sane man that is compared to an insane society, and because the mirror with which I reflect on my life is that insane society, it is entirely possible that I may appear insane. Worse than this is the innocent soul that lacks such a realisation and still seeks affirmation from that same insane society.

  • Cyclic Sanity

    I’ve often contemplated, like many others, the reasons for time going so much faster as I get older. Many of my conclusions are no different to those considered by most others as well, yet I feel compelled to write them down after a few weeks of being particularly preoccupied with these thoughts. The obvious conclusion is that I have more that I’m responsible for doing now than I did when I was younger, so it stands to reason that I have less time available in between all the things I have to do. But that seems to only answer part of the question.

    It seems that life has become a ritual that operates in cycles. I often find myself fixated on observing, measuring, reminiscing, contemplating and doing everything within the context of new years, another month, the next week, or tomorrow to the point where I find that I convince myself that the cycles of these years, let alone the days, or even the hours, is what determines the activities that I should be planning for. Most of us, well at least the 99%, work from pay cheque to pay cheque. If we have disposable income after redistribution day, we consider ourselves fortunate, if not entirely blessed. The more disposable income we have, the more blessed we feel, the more we indulge, the more we need to focus on getting that next pay cheque to feel blessed again. This might sound like a cynic’s view of life, but there’s much truth in it.

    I forget so easily how to fill the gaps in between all the responsibilities that I have. Worse yet, I forget that many of those responsibilities can be fulfilling and rewarding rather than a duty, but the ever present demon of expectations dissuades me from raising too many expectations beyond what my duty is. And so the cycles of sanity are spawned and nurtured all at once. There is much merit in being spontaneous as opposed to measured and deliberate. I used to embrace spontaneity, but due to the prejudices of society, I feel like I’m sub-consciously suppressing my spontaneity from fear of being seen as one having a mid-life crisis.

    The staid, predictable, frightfully responsible, and entirely dependable family man is what is expected of me. It’s what a dysfunctional and disillusioned society expects of me. It’s what I demand of myself, despite it going against my own nature. I embrace responsibility willingly, because there is too much recklessness around me. But the cycles drive me insane. The painful predictability of life, of each month, of each day. It all stifles me. It smothers me. So I rebel. I say the things that are improper, and I challenge those views held sacred, not because I want to, but because I feel extremely restless and uncomfortable when I see others behave out of ritual or habit without appreciating the gaps they have at their disposal.

    I would rather have responsibilities between the gaps, rather than gaps between the responsibilities. The proverbial glass is half empty for me not because I don’t see it as half full, but simply because I know I’ve drunk more than most from it. I don’t want my glass to be half full. In fact, I don’t want a glass. I don’t want convention. Nor do I want routine or safe choices. I want to know that I am living and not just going through the motions pretending that doing something better today than I did it yesterday, which was better than I did it the day before, is sufficient fulfilment for my life. I need more than that. I need to look in someone’s eyes and see it confused and restless because I challenged them to think. Because I challenged them to work those gaps and move beyond the routine.

    Those gaps. They’re so damn elusive because when I get them, I’m usually taking a breather to recover from the demands of the routine. I must break the cycle. This cycle of seeming sanity has robbed me of the essence of what it pretends to be. Sanity is not the prevalence of order, nor is it the prevalence of function. It’s simply, by society’s standards, the presence of conformance. Conformance has killed many a creative soul, and destroyed many a great idea. More than this, conformance has destroyed the me I used to smile at. It’s time to break the cycle of sanity. For verily, as has been said already, a sane man, when compared to an insane society, must appear insane. But I think JG Ballard said it best when he said, “In a totally sane society, madness is the only freedom.”

  • The Oppression of Victim-hood

    Being oppressed does not necessarily result in victims, but sitting and waiting for someone else to lift you out of your oppressive state does. Immediately images of Palestine, Burma, Iraq, Syria and other downtrodden communities come to mind, for most anyway. However, this state of victim-hood happens on a daily basis in the most arrogant and privileged among us.

    We often look for signs of being victims in people that appear helpless and incapable of fending for or defending themselves. Perhaps this is part of the psyche that drives us to denounce our own state of victim-hood. I’ve often suggested that anger is driven by fear, and fear is in turn driven by insecurity. Given that victims are generally insecure, either physically or emotionally, it stands to reason then that those that are angry more often than not are most probably the biggest victims among us. However, given that anger is often used to subdue others, it’s easy to see the target of such aggression as being the weak, and the aggressors as being the strong. This is very far from the truth of it all.

    I’m not suggesting that the aggressors should earn our sympathy, because that would be further adding to the imbalance in society that aggressors create. Rather, what I am suggesting is that if we recognise the victim-hood in the aggressors, we’ll recognise their weakness. If we recognise their weakness, we stand a chance of rising above their oppression and finding ways to undo that which gives them power over others. Stop thinking about this in the context of war and crime. It’s easy to be distracted by those because of the unfortunate prevalence of it all. Instead, think about in the context of an ordinary life.

    There is always someone looking to assert their superiority over others. But there’s rarely enough to recognise that such an effort results from an insecurity that drives us to seek such significance because we don’t believe we’re significant by default. It’s easy to succumb to oppression because we have a world celebrating the victim-hood of all with the aggressor being life. Just yesterday I heard that a child that throws tantrums at least three times a month for the period of a year is deemed to have a psychological disorder. Where I come from, it’s a parenting disorder, not a psychological one. The fact that the parents are inept primarily because of their own insecurities further cements the views I’ve shared about the oppression that results from victim-hood. But we’re unfortunately conditioned to believe that victims should be meek creatures waiting for a hand up, while forgetting that in waiting for a hand up we give up our right to take a stand for ourselves.

    Standing up should not be the act of a hero, or a brave soul. Like Stefan Molyneux said, “Anytime you create a hero, you diminish your own capacity for greatness.” Similarly, each time you wait for a hand up, you reduce your own capacity to be you. To be independent. To be a master of your life, rather than a victim.

  • Where My Food Lies

    I believe that the primary source of my affirmation is what feeds my soul. It is pitiful however, that such food is rarely wholesome since what appeases my ego often enjoys precedence over what feeds my soul. I hear of the agony of the heart versus the struggles of the head and none of it makes sense to me. I wonder if these efforts at apportioning constraints to these fountains of angst is in fact a delusion in the making, and if the head and the heart work in perfect balance to create the perfect storm, either of rapture, or rupture.

    Everything is in perfect balance, but in our drive to sell products and rape the bank accounts of the unsuspecting, we’ve perpatuated the idea that balance is only achieved in wholesomeness. It isn’t. My level of despair has always been directly proprotional to my level of jubilation. When the one decreases, the other increases, and so it is with everything in life. To assume that there is a perfect balance that is achievable external to our own needs for affirmation is a lie that will result in horrible truths that face us when we’re taking our final breath.

    Balance is not something to be achieved, but rather something to be balanced. Only in living consciously and mindfully, are we able to determine what balance we want for ourselves rather than allowing someone else’s ideals to be projected on our lives. I do not seek the balance of a successful capitalist, nor do I seek the balance of an ascetic. But both the capitalist and the ascetic have a right to the balance that they have sought out in their lives. My balance is my own, and my source of affirmation has to be other than man if ever I am to free myself from the slavery of my ego.

    My life’s struggle has been to find balance, but unfortunately much of it has been wasted trying to acquire someone else’s balance without achieving the realisation of my own. Much life has been spent, but life is not spent yet, so with dogged determination I will continue to pursue a balance that feeds me not of this world, but one that makes me worthy of what bliss may lie beyond. This may sound naive or even ridiculous to those that see nothing beyond, but if I were to consider the potential of getting that wrong, and compare that to the peace and purpose that such a pursuit would afford me in this life, I would happily get it wrong, because in doing so, I would also get it right. My balance, that is.

  • The Pretentiousness of Self-Doubt

    Self-doubt, it seems, is insecurity cloaked in anxiety. It occurred to me one morning on my way to work this week that each time I witnessed someone in the throes of an anxiety attack, there was an underlying sense of grave insecurity that left them helpless to deal with even fleeting thoughts of burdens they couldn’t stand the thought of bearing.

    This same pretentiousness drives me to write, or to ramble. This pretence that if I spew these words, it will relieve me of the burden of realisation that accompany them. It doesn’t. I read, quite uninterestedly, the numerous reminders about death. Reminders intended to spur us into action before that moment arrives when we stare inevitability in the face pleading for one more chance to do everything we always promised ourselves we’d do before we got old. But those reminders don’t remind me, they only taunt me.

    They taunt me because they remind me not of death, but rather of my eager anticipation of it since my youngest years. And as I grew older, I grew more tired of the wait and the anguish of not knowing when. When I was 22, I revelled in the deep-seated certainty that I would not live beyond 23, and so I immersed myself in this promise of tomorrow not always holding true. Until I lived beyond that age and felt cheated out of the promise of peace.

    But this is not about death. Nor is it about life. It’s about the lies we tell ourselves for so long that eventually we even convince others that it’s true about us. It starts out with a simple insecurity, or a simple doubt about something inconsequential, but usually larger than life because of the audience rather than the deed. It starts out when we’re unconsciously focused on how we’re to be seen by another, instead of how capable we are. That’s when the paralysing fear of incompetence sets in and convinces us that it’s safer to hold back, than it is to push forward because ridicule is far more painful than an insignificant success.

    And so the circle of doubt is formed. There are many that nurture it to the point of debilitation, while others stop short at instant gratification. Instantly gratifying themselves with puny accomplishments and denying themselves the opportunity to excel beyond mediocrity. More than the debilitated ones, I pity the mediocre amongst us. They hinder us in our quest for excellence or fulfilment, because they’re always pandering to the accolades of the feeble minded. Meanwhile, their appearance of confidence in their mediocre endeavours feed that self-doubt until they reach a point in life when the lies are just not convincing any longer. That’s when the fear of being discovered lurks just beneath the skin of the faces of those pretending to be the shadow of their true selves.

    Most of us will die never realising our true potential. Worse still, most of us will die not having anyone believe in our true potential. That we will die is inevitable. That we will live is highly doubtful.

    My sincerest condolences to the sorry soul that can relate to the incoherent rant that I just attempted to disguise as a meaningful post.

  • Knowledge

    A little knowledge makes you arrogant,

    A lot of knowledge makes you humble.

    ~ Cynically Jaded

  • Freedom of Speech, etc.

    After seeing a headline in a local community newspaper this afternoon, it suddenly struck me why Muslims, in their current approach, will always be on the defensive when debating issues of freedom of speech or expression. The headline read something like, ‘Freedom of Speech, or Freedom to Blaspheme’. It was that last word that caught my attention.

    You see, when we accuse someone of blasphemy, there seems to be an underlying assumption that they hold dear what we hold dear. Or at the least, they respect what we respect. For this reason, we will forever be mocked by the irreverent few that take much pride and joy in mocking us. Why? I think it’s actually quite simple. We’re so drawn into defending and protecting the rituals of Islam, that we’ve failed dismally to demonstrate beyond any reasonable doubt why we proclaim Islam to be so beautiful, and worthy of respect.

    If I look around and see how entertainers garner respect even by people that do not normally take to such forms of entertainment, I notice that what is usually accompanied by such respect is an appreciation for the effort and skill that goes into that art form that is presented as entertainment. Hardly seems like a worthy comparison considering the mainstream Muslim views on entertainment, but bear with me. Note, I said Muslim views, not Islamic views, which is an inherent part of this problem. We’ve become so obsessed with point-in-time interpretations about what Islam stood for or represented during an era many centuries ago, that we’ve given up the principles that those wise scholars extrapolated their rulings from, and instead turned their guidance into ritualistic observations subscribed to by sects.

    How does this play into the hands of those that criticise Muslims for their supposed intolerance, or as some would like to believe, their bronze-aged-myths? Again, it’s really simple. When you become a ritualist, expect it to lead you down the path towards blind following. When you become a blind follower, it’s inevitable that intolerance will set in when others fail to see the merits of your rituals, especially when you’re incapable of explaining the principles and real-world value from such rituals. And that is the problem with most Muslims. They fail to see this connection. Look at the mobs and the out-of-hand protests that violate the very same principles and direct injunction of the same way of life, including the blessed personality that they profess to be defending and it’s easy to see how lost we are as an Ummah.

    Fortunately there are an increasing number of informed voices of a youth that appear to be inspired by the truth as they experience it, and as they can rationalise it based on a clear understanding and study of the most pristine sources of Islam that are speaking out against this ignorance. There are many difficult debates to still be had, but the fact that the aloofness of the present-day scholars is now being openly questioned instead of being blindly venerated is a clear sign that we’re finally emerging from the slump of cult-ish behaviour that we’ve immersed ourselves into from fear of getting things wrong.

    So freedom of speech, according to its present-day practice, is very likely, and somewhat justifiably, going to be exercised in a manner that can be deemed blasphemous by many. However, they can only successfully ridicule that which we hold sacred if we conduct ourselves in a manner that feeds such ridicule. There will always be irreverent idiots out there that despite the most convincing arguments, will always arrogantly hold fast to their ideologies that justify such condescension and ridicule even where none is justified, but the irony is that they are in fact a reflection of the behaviour of many Muslims today, just with the absence of faith in Allah. Perhaps when those mainstream Muslims realise this, they may just allow themselves an opportunity to think, rationalise, and appreciate the true beauty of what Islam offers them, rather than just stubbornly observing rituals without any consideration or understanding for its intended purpose.

    I could continue for hours on end discussing the contradictions between what Muslim claim to stand for these days, versus what their actions reveal, but I don’t think it’s necessary. The fact that we’re fair game for ridicule these days proves this point sufficiently.

  • Sunset from my backyard

    Sunset from our backyard this evening.

    Taken with my cell phone, in Johannesburg, South Africa.

    (c) Cynically Jaded – Oct 2012