Category: Philosophy

Court declared him innocent after 19 years. But he was already dead 2 years ago; after spending 17 years in jail for nothing. His father died during court proceedings. His two uncles died. He died too. Good riddance, he thought.

Up above the heavens, God was happy that he has come back to Him. All his questions were ready to be answered. A big ceremony was being organized with a ‘kun’ here and a ‘kun’ there.

He was told in his report that he wouldn’t be in heaven if he would have been free all his life. He was told that God sent him to jail for a reason. Destiny, that you cannot question. He was told that he has all this heaven now. To enjoy forever.

He listened to the stories quietly. Without expression. Without emotions. Without tears. Without happiness.

After all the beautiful reasonings of destiny, he was asked if he had anything to say.

“O dear Lord of all the Worlds, I now know the reasons. But 17 years in prison for no crime cannot be justified. Be it destiny, but this heaven be justified.”

“The stink, the humidity, the pain, the torture, no air, hard floor, and food of prison… cannot be justified for that long.”

“Can your angels spend 17 years like that my beloved Lord? Or your Prophets? Your favorite one? Or You Yourself, You forbid, my Dear Lord?”

“It’s really tough to be a human. It’s a torture destined without agreement.”

“Dear Lord of All Worlds, You know what would have been the best for me? No life. No existence at all. Or an early death in prison; maybe in the first year. But 17? No, by dear Lord.”

“Or a little consent somewhere before the formation in the womb. Where I could present a case, and You could present a demo of life; and we both could agree to disagree – and I could be punished with no life at all.”

Nothing has changed. Maybe a little, but not really. I would insist on standing correctly.

I still wake up as a believer. A man of faith. With the passing of the day, the belief system transforms – evolution or devolution. It adopts more of atheism. By the night, its agnosticism that wins. And then, it starts all over again with the next sunrise.

If I had to choose one, I would choose none. Each has its own beauty.

Peek a little at any religion and it’s beautiful. See their books. Their Prophets – or non-Prophets. See their scriptures. Their religious places. I love religious places of all kinds. Mosque, Church, Temple, Gurdwara, Synagogue, etc. Each beautiful in its own way.

None of the religion says to mock. None say to hurt. None say to snatch. None say to rob, rape, abuse, murder, or anything bad. Yet, their competition never ends. And it would never end. And that’s not fine. Or maybe it is fine because over a billion people would die of hunger if there wasn’t any religion.  

You can say every religion is beautiful. Or each one is detestable. The meaning would remain the same. Do you know how many bloody wars atheists and agnostics have fought throughout history?

Yes. Blame the people. Not religion. A convenient offering. Denied. Dismissed.

Anyway. I was talking about my religion.

A beautiful religion to look forward to in the day. And nothing to look forward to by the night except your own self. Your own guts, your own imagination, your own power of will, your own lethargy, your own words, your own keyboard. Your own stubbornness not to make a dua for another year. Then another. Then…

That’s His Highness’s way of life. It’s nothing to be proud of.

From giving ownership to the Divine in the day and debating to get it back during the noon and successfully getting it back by the night. How bright? Did I ever tell you that I am a good lawyer too.

Poetic! How can it be that you talk about religion, and you don’t rhyme?

Are you interested in space and cosmos? It’s consistent expansion. The more we know, the more we don’t know. The more we see, the more is yet to be seen. From masters of the universe, we have not even been able to manage ourselves as a single dot in space. These spheres, these stars, these planetary systems, the galaxies, the cosmos and what not. The black holes – the most interesting aspect of the universe; after Marla. Obviously.

Well, I don’t know much about space. Almost nothing. Except that it is the most interesting subject in the history of us. And that is also a source of making the point that there is nothing. Or maybe, the point is the exact opposite.

Anyway, back to where we were before the usual deviation. Everything is beautiful. Religion too. The God too. The whole scripture too.

But then you see a child with cancer. Or a mother dying of hunger. Or a war killing thousands of children just because they were born in the cursed land. Or any other tragedy. Like a person living on dialysis for the last ten years. Something. Anything. And then you believe that this can’t be divine work. This can’t be a work of art. This is too ugly and too messy to be appreciated.

You may disagree. I disagree with myself too. Because I know nothing.

There is not a single subject that I know of. Master of none.

Yet, there is not a single subject of which I don’t know. Master of all.

Because I am you.

And we are all like that. I am you. You are me. We are all the same – with the only exception that I am writing these words while you are reading your thoughts.

Other than that, we all have the same source of DNA. We all may be children of God. Or not. But we all deserve to live the way want to live. And we all deserve to be respected.

Except those. You know those already.

With that, Jumma Mubarik!

Before questioning someone’s marriage, you should question the institution of marriage itself. How was it formed? Why was it made? And how the world was operating before this system?

Isn’t it strange that almost all civilizations and religions adopted marriage by default – with a little this and that? Why?

How people lived otherwise? Were there more matrilineal societies?

In the end, wasn’t it the element of jealousy that formed an institution to bestow property kinda laws on people and their sexualities? Particularly women!

If your answer is all about procreation and children then what if the state takes the position of a father – as Plato said? It had. And it has.

Education, health, monthly payments to mothers and similar other services by the state can defuse your arguments for marriage. See Scandinavia. The state owns its children more than a father.

By the way, don’t get into answers where marriage is confused with parenthood. Parenthood was always there. Marriage wasn’t. Even today in certain tribes, marriage is not known.

Now, that would be a long post. Maybe some other day with some insights from Bertrand Russell.

But before that, you must read the last post about 1799 which you people have intentionally or unintentionally ignored.

Most of the times, you know you are wrong. Guilty. But still, you want a person to tell you that you are right, and that person is all right with you. Friends usually cover this aspect of life for you. You tell them your state – with or without missing pieces of information that makes you guilty – and they validate it. If they don’t, they don’t stay your friend eventually.

There is a shortage of friends today. So, therapists and psychologists cover this part. In future, Artificial Intelligence is going to cover this superbly with perfect answers that you always wanted to hear. Particularly, when you were wrong.

Friends can go rogue sometimes. They can be honest and lethal by telling you your wrongdoings, which you know already. But the sessions where you pay to be listened will never tell you that you were wrong. It would be idiotic of them to lose a client. A bird. Coming and paying for validations.

With that comes a whole new industry worth billions of dollars. That is going to be modernized from traditional approaches. From informal friendships to formal sessions to AI.

That’s all for ‘validation’. That’s how important it is for the majority of the people. This need has upped with social media and modern devices.

But then there are the crazy ones. Who doesn’t want validations. Even when they are wrong. Some even seek invalidations. Or they are indifferent. And they carry their boats, a little better than others, and keep a low pace towards life. And sometimes, they make an impact too.

One said, “You only write in pain and not when happy.”

The other said, “You are never happy.”

And Tyler Durden said, “We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.”

And His Highness thought, “What about the generation of men being raised by maids?”

‘I love the way you lie.’

No. You don’t need the next answer because it will be further down the road to nowhere. But Tyler could never be wrong. Anyway, this is about Eminem being an anti-depressant by hitting on the painful nerves of misery, loss, hunger, threat, fear, illiteracy, fanaticism, blood, nothingness, and oblivion.

All the content in apostrophes (‘) are lyrics from different songs of Eminem’s. Let’s try… ‘I shouldn’t have to rhyme these words in the rhythm for you to know it’s a rap.’

The other day, some words – of real intellect eh – were thrown randomly and were taken properly. Life is a disease. Sexually transmitted disease. It is as random as a cat getting under a vehicle on a highway. Random highway. Random truck. Random cat.

‘All I ever wanted to do was just make you proud, now I’m sitting in this empty house, just reminiscing looking at your baby pictures.’

Majority of the kids come in this world – at least in this part of the world – to prove that their parents could reproduce. Manhood. Womanhood. A complete biology of being someone who doesn’t matter. These kids come to give a final badge of fulfillment to a couple. A couple, who may not be able to move along in the long-run and may keep on falling daily until death of one. Or both.

‘This is my life. And these times are so hard, and it’s getting even harder.

Trying to feed and water my seed, plus,

Teeter totter caught up between being a father and a prima donna.

Baby mama drama’s screaming on and,

Too much for me to wanna,

Stay in one spot, another day of monotony,

Has gotten me to the point, I’m like a snail.’

There is the other side of the story of existence too. Children are taken as kids only and their stance doesn’t matter. Because the unwritten rules are written by the ones in power. Something like patriarchy. Where no woman can be a Prophet. Same way, no child was a Prophet to command the adults of the world according to what the minors wanted. Want. No philosopher was a child to philosophize the ideas that are compared with the purity of God. Like jumping in a puddle of muddy water being hailed in the heavens. Something like that. 

‘I can’t tell you what it really is. I can only tell you what it feels like.

And right now, there’s a steel knife in my windpipe.

I can’t breathe, but I still fight while I can fight,

As long as the wrong feels right, it’s like I’m in flight.’

Children are medals for the parents. And the grandparents. They are trained for a race to beat others so that the shine and rise for their parents, so that they can bicker, among others, about their elite genes. That’s all. The free souls are not free from the beginning. The homes, all homes, are not less than animal farms themselves. Orwellian animal farm was macro level. But this is micro level institutionalization of domestic farms all over the world where children are raised and trained to be domesticized competitively. 

‘Lonely roads, God only knows, he’s grown farther from home, he’s no father,

He goes home and barely knows his own daughter.’

His Highness is at His Lowness for some time now. Or maybe it is the lowness that persists the highness and moves around and it all is monotonous. Absurd.

‘Now you’re in each other’s face. Spewing venom in your words when you spit ’em.’

Wait. Wait for your time. Your destiny. To arrive. It is all about waiting. We – the spectators of our own lives – are here to wait only. Wait for the green light. Wait for the queue to shrink. Wait in hospital – either on the bed or outside in the corridor. Wait for the kid to grow up. Wait for the meal to finish. Wait for the day to come. Wait for the time to run. It is all about waiting. And we will be judged and punished for waiting. Sometimes, waiting for too long. Surviving in waiting for too long.

‘Look. If you had. One shot. Or one opportunity. To seize everything, you ever wanted. In one moment. Would you capture it. Or just let it slip?’

Obviously, you won’t let it slip. But it will slip, nonetheless. That’s the take. The cake.

‘You can try and read my lyrics off of this paper before I lay ’em.

But you won’t take the sting out these words before I say ’em.

Cause ain’t no way I’ma let you stop me from causin’ mayhem.

When I say I’m a do somethin’, I do it.

I don’t give a damn what you think.

I’m doin’ this for me, so fuck the world, feed it beans.’

Since the beginning, right from the first human, a Prophet, humans are solving problems. In disguise, creating more. Every generation came to struggle against the odds. Initially, it was against giant animals. Then came food scarcity. Then came kings and emperors. All generations led to a failure gradually. So came Noah’s Ark. The world was decided to be flooded and ended for a new beginning. One shot. Or one opportunity. Let it slip with the ark.  

‘I promise to focus solely on handlin’ my responsibilities as a father.

So, I solemnly swear to always treat this roof like my daughters and raise it.

You couldn’t lift a single shingle on it, ’cause the way I feel,

I’m strong enough to go to the club or the corner pub.

And lift the whole liquor counter up ’cause I’m raising the bar,

I’d shoot for the moon but I’m too busy gazin’ at stars, I feel amazing and I’m not.’

More will come with the same struggles. More philosophies will be written down to solve the same old problems. But a single philosophy will not turn down the tyranny or fascism. Words and books and philosophies will be hailed and remembered in the libraries. That’s all. Nothing will change anything.

In the end, it is just a race. From birth to death. Death doesn’t matter but neither does birth. With a little this and that here and there, everything is almost similar. A little less or a little more but the same food in different utensils. With same mental trauma for everything, the whole previous generation is raising the next one to be the same one so that they can also be traumatized in due time. What else is the option? Nothing. There is no option. The whole design of the Matrix is either kill or get killed. And this race always ends with death.

‘His gift is a curse, forget the Earth, he’s got the urge to pull his dick from the dirt. And fuck the whole universe’.

You are always a spectator. Even in your personal life.

In a crowd. Among a mob. In traffic. At a jalsa. In an accident. Always a spectator.

At a movie. Watching news. Waiting to be served. Even when served. At parking lot.

In events. At functions. At sessions. In weddings. Even in your own wedding. Or weddings.

At hospitals. Watching doctors and nurses moving around. This medicine and that. A spectator.

At home. Outside home. For home. Private matters. Personal stuff. A spectator. Always.

Sometimes, you even die as a spectator. While watching a movie. Seeing a leader. In traffic. At home.

Sometimes, while being a spectator, you have a heart break. Sometimes, it leads to a heart attack. Sometimes, to the hospital. To the grave. You are nothing more than a collateral damage.

And even after that, you remain a spectator. Watching the legacy of the mess you leave behind. From up in the air. Seeing the true souls behind people you served all your life.

Spectacular douchebags!

You are always a spectator. From public to private life. From life to death. From your bed to your bath. A spectator.

You are invited. You are not invited. You are incited. You are not even counted. Nothing changes the fact that you are a mere spectator in every possible scenario.

You have nothing of your own. Even your anger is imported. Your ego is purchased. And your whole self is for sale. Depending on the right price.

In the end, you have nothing. Because you have nothing. What you got now was part of some other spectator. Now, you have that and you are the spectator for the time being but ultimately, you have nothing.

Even your grave becomes a spot for other spectators who awe in loathing while being thankful that they ain’t dead. You are. And they won’t be dead. They all think exactly the same way.

That’s all. Spectator!

چن  کِتھاں  گُزاری آئی رات  وے

مینڈھا  جی  دلیلاں  دے  وات  وے

Dearest! where did you spend the night?

My heart may need proofs to calm down.

Every rendition of this couplet is sad because the meaning is sad and the whole scenario is as dark as the night when reasoning is trying to hurt. But it’s too old and outdated. The world doesn’t work this way anymore.

Modern world is of IT, Google, and online profiles on different platforms of every other person. Close Interactions started from MSN messengers to poking on Orkut and went ahead to chatrooms to one-on-one chats to Skype videocalls to today where run-time locations are known. What can you do if the insignificant other is insignificant not just metaphorically?

Modern world has modern problems too. Digital blackmailing. Actual or edited pictures and videos. The mistake, which never felt like a mistake, becomes a life threat. A picture or a video can become a scandal and then you are needed to accept it and heal the insignificant other. Neither you committed the mistake, nor you had the fun, yet you have to carry the baggage. It’s a modern world of enlightenment and evolution and you need to have an open skull.

In old times, an ex would have been an ex. A mistake would have been a mistake. Past would have been a forgotten past.

Today, an ex is a connected ex on social media. A mistake is not a mistake but a surprise to cherish. Past is revived whenever a chance is there.

More exes. More connections. More chances. More fun. Sometimes, there are two exes in a single location. Cousins, close neighborhoods, and joint-family system stuff.

And more rendezvous. Which are not rendezvous but carefully crafted plans where you are left out strategically. You don’t know that. You may never know. You may remain stupid who cannot connect the dots – like stars in a dark night.

Now the final point: What if you know?

Nothing changes. Misery may enhance. Your curse to fate and destination may get abusive. Your anger and frustration may hurt yourself. And… nothing else. It is all part of fate which is planned, and you are just left out. Sometimes, you may get to know things directly from the insignificant other when threat looms; like digital blackmailing or surfacing of an archived picture or something. Then you are needed to carry the luggage and deliver it safely with honor, because it is the honor at stake. Apparently. Ironically, the honor never even existed; only you were unaware.

Anyway.

Just when you were running domestic errands, the insignificant other may have been in another world, igniting the passion of past. Because you are too boring like an old salad and everyone deserves a different platter occasionally. Right? Absolutely.

Truthfully writing, there is no significant other. It’s an illusion of an idea that hides, cheats, and creates an impression of a perfect being. This idea failed right on its inception. You are your own castle to stand and to defend. You are your own honor. Your honor!

P.S. just in case, the ‘Insignificant Other’ is you.

Thank you!

When you get to know that the previous tragedy was way better than this current one, then you realize… you realize that… nothing. Nothing matters. Except tragedies.

There should be music. And dance. Yes, in tragedies.

Feeling nostalgic about the ex-tragedy is a tragedy in itself.

By the way, what’s not tragedy? You are a tragedy. Existence is a tragedy. Death is a tragedy too. That’s hypocrisy? And hypocrisy is a tragedy as well.

That’s all so tragic. Over and out!

Emotional meltdown. Disappointment. Disappointed. All kept under the carpet with a façade of all’s good.

All’s not good. Not since… let’s say since the first rhyme in the right ear.

The destination was defined. Step by step to catastrophe of self. To annihilation of the existence. Unbeing of being.

Then there is this need to share. To woe. To slander. To get a verdict from a friend that you are doing fine. Or an affirmation from a relative that you are too good. Or someone else to confirm that there’s no fault at your end.

The idea of shrinks. There was no need of them. Then the need came with consumerism. With too much to spare and spend, came the need of shrinks for validation of all the wrongdoings that you have committed.

Even you know that. You hide your bad deeds. Tell bad deeds of others. And the shrink keeps on stamping them. Approved. Dismissed. Move on. Be happy.

What is the purpose?

One of the finest ayahs – which comes as a reminder on my handheld daily at 9 am – in the Quran is:-

وَيْلٌۭ لِّكُلِّ هُمَزَةٍۢ لُّمَزَةٍ

Translation: Woe to every backbiter, slanderer.

Yet, you need another soul for validation. You need another slanderer to make your own faults look better. These are default settings of every human being. So, with the default needs came a product to be marketed with pretty good pricing: shrinks – psychologists and therapists.

Or you know too much. Already good to go. Handling your emotional meltdown all alone. Managing a decade of deep personal recession all alone. Without a need for a slanderer’s ear.

You can write. You can whisper. You can talk to yourself. You can talk to God – depends on the belief system you have updated inside. Your inside person will tell you better. Your own faults won’t be kept under the carpet. Your inside person will not forgive you for your sins. That person won’t let you sleep with all your wealth. You will be dependent on antidepressants and sleeping pills in a cozy expensive bed. Or you will have to bear insomnia.

Insomnias are also unexplainable. You are awake even when asleep and are asleep even when working without committing errors. Two worlds in parallel move together in insomnia and both exists. Only one is physically painful and the other one emotionally. Hence, meltdown.

Unlocks a phone and tap tap and an email is read or a text is sent and back to a small episode of sleep and later the day you see a new email but it’s open already or a sent text which you don’t remember and then your narrator self talks to Tyler Durden and things prove to be as messy as expected. Reminds me of Messi.

We are all Jack’s narration. We all have a Durden inside. You can mourn or moan. Depends on the Durden you are feeding.

Even if you have no faults and you are at the receiving end – situation remains same. Pills are needed and then they don’t work and then more pills are needed.

A shrink will make you sleep better by killing your own narrations. A complete market exists for that. Your inner person won’t let you sleep but a shrink will.

But sometimes – after months – you are pinched too hard. And then you spread venom through your tongue and burn the souls around you who were busy burning you all the time. You don’t need an ear of a human to bicker. You prefer a crowd and after all it’s better.

So much better. No slandering. No woe. Job well done. However, things and events are not sequential. It’s the second worst phase and it’s not ending. After all it’s about all the bad choices. A never ending punishment. It’s not like a 14-year or death sentence because both ends.

The trial is not even explainable. Ironically, all the characters are dependent on the protagonist – one way or the other. Even those characters who live far apart but the roles are so deeply defined that antagonists have taken the story to another level. Protagonist is the antagonist now. Not invited anymore anywhere except when needed.

Still unexplainable. Too confusing.
Bad to worse to worst. Disappointing.

Now that’s the therapy. That’s that. Too relieving. Isn’t it? Who needs another shrink – paid or unpaid – for this? Not His Highness.

Bad decisions define us. Pains define us. The words that are decorated with blood don’t come out of the stars in heaven. They come out from the inferno of heart where a fire burns all the time.

So let that be. To be. Not ‘not to be’.

All rise! And pray! “Those who keep the flames high – may peace be upon them too“. Amen!

Session dismissed. You may pay at the counter.

No one can know what it is to be you.
No one can know what it is to be me. To me.
How hard is it? How bad? How tough? How rough?

Can there be happiness? Eternal sunshine? Perpetual peace? Silence?

We are defined by the choices we make. And the choices we let go. Both. I wonder what the un-opted choices would have brought? Must be better. After all, you know you make the worst of the decisions.

How can you know this one is going to be the best one when you don’t even know the remaining options?

How can you choose when you have only one life? How can you evaluate the two when you are one? How can this all work, with all the blame falling on you? On us. On me. The dispensable!

This is how it is but it’s wrong. Would you do it again? Yes. You are going fine. But people don’t really mean yes. Never do.

You are not asked before life. But you can’t take one. Not even your own. The absolute slavery defines you. You can be conceived in a pit or a bed of roses but you ain’t the choice. You never were.

Have you wondered why suicide is not allowed? Because it is pleasurable. Just like all the sins in and around alcohol and sex. Banned. Because suicide is next to ecstasy. A final ride up in the air. A never ending ride.

Imagine your wrist. A cut. Fine one. And blood gushing out. Beat by beat. Gradually slowing down the flow. Along with the rhythm of the heart. Dhumb dhumb. Snoozing out. Zooming out. Eyes seeing the other side of the coded world. Everything decrypting right in front of you. And it all shines on. Like the moon. Like the star. Like the sun. Sorry Lennon!

How dare you think to get out of your enslaved body? How dare you think to get out of pain? Freedom is banned.

Once a prophet asked God that he wants the whole prophethood lineage through him until the last prophet. God accepted. This is a divine acceptance of dynastic rule. Or monarchy. Yet, you can’t… I know… You know… Resist.

Even when the greatest of prophets knew a lot, and had direct contact with the God, they couldn’t resist. Musa couldn’t resist his questions. Khizr couldn’t bear Musa. The two great men had to part ways because the two were incompatible. But we – the imperfect ones – are not allowed to part ways. We are blamed. Judged. Stoned. Punished. Labeled for life.

I am Musa. I can’t bear myself. That’s the whole point.

How bad it is? How worse could it be?

Sometimes you connect the dots backwards. Reverse engineering. Going reverse in mind and yet there is no apparent contingency choice. Until or unless you go backwards in time so deep that the Butterfly Effect happens and you cut your own umbilical cord inside your mother.

After all, you cut your umbilical cord all the time. Only that you just don’t die because you are not allowed to die by choice.

Do you know what hospice is? Do know. There are ways to reduce pain without cutting the wire. But I do believe that concept from ‘You Don’t Know Jack”. There must be a choice. At least when the pain is unbearable and there is no hope ahead. The hospice system should enhance for all age groups.

Isn’t it too frustrating? Let’s cut the cord for now. There are times when we all wish there was no time. No existence. No existential crises.

And no words.