Friday night

It was a Friday night like this that I have been longing to bring back. This Friday night is reminiscent of those many happy nights just before weekends back in college, back when I was young, gullible, and less cynical, back when I knew things would only get better, when I was often in love, when I was poor, hungry.

I’d sit at my table, get a book from a nearby shelf and read until two in the morning or until I felt sleepy. I’d go down to the kitchen, pour hot water from that rusty thermos of my landlady into a chipped mug and dissolve those cheap three-in-ones I have gone to detest. I don’t miss the coffee, the mug, my room, nor that thermos. But the experience, I do miss. It aches remembering how simple things were back then. How now they’re nothing but objects waiting to gain symbolic significance.

And while I am enjoying this Friday night, it pains me as much because it’s a reminder of that past that’s been dissolved into mere abstraction dependent on my writing, knowing for sure that I will never be able to fully capture and give justice using my prose those beautiful nights that are now rendered almost fictional on the page of this post, but still truly concrete and vivid in my imagination.

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Working on a Sunday

I have done innumerable sacrilege before, and I did all of them without batting a single eyelash. I was unrepentant, devoid of guilt, indifferent. I thought that my enormity will extend infinitely, until today. When I agreed to work today, I thought it was a good idea, of earning an amount enough to buy a crisp-looking, elegant white shirt or to pay for a dinner-for-two in a decent restaurant. Until I realized that I have lost all regard, or better yet, respect, for the supernatural who asked this day be reserved for rest and quiet contemplation, which places me in the same league as your common thief, blasphemer, seducer of his neighbor’s wife, and man slaughterer. But more importantly, I have desecrated my own body, given up all respect left for time and time for rest by working on a rainy Sunday morning.

By working I become free (note the chilly Nazi-esque sound of it). And indeed I have become free, but by freeing myself from my parents’ clasps, I have allowed myself to be perpetually imprisoned, because I have chosen (?) to, by work. There’s a whole bunch of very bitter irony in the idea of choice or, more comprehensively, freedom, modern society makes us think we have. We do not really have a choice because the entire exercise is structured in a way that we’d eventually end up choosing what it has all along wanted us to choose, giving us a false feeling that that this was reached with the employ of free will. Free will is an abstraction that only exists in some yet-to-be-discovered utopia.

If a man, wiser than any of us, chooses to turn his back on work all these worldly comforts and conveniences, how do you think will he be judged by the rest of us? Exalt him because of his unbounded sagacity? Definitely not. Daft, we’d say.