That was not a good night

Met an old friend last night for drinks. Her fiance got delayed in London, so she's at liberty for a weekend in Paris, staying in the Four Seasons. Not too bad, I think. I'm not going to elaborate on what precisely happened last night, but we did get thrown out of a club, and I did a spot of heavy lifting. On the upside, it's the first time I've been ejected from a club in Paris.

Then I headed back to the rather miserable dorm, slightly tired from the physical and mental exertions, only to find a hugely noisy party going on downstairs from where I sit and surf. When I eventually gave up and decide that I need a drink, I discover that I am, for once, out of alcohol. So I summon the energy to head to the party, in quest of the promised free drinks. It turns out that it was essentially a frat party, transplanted to Paris sans the frat.

Ok ok, that's cool. I can live with that. Hey, American student dorm in Paris, of course they'll do what they enjoy in the States, right? I must admit though, I started out more than a little disdainful, and headed back up to my room for a little bit. After a while, I decided that I was way too sober for my own good, so I surrendered and went back down again, determined to get at least a little bit tipsy.

Obviously, they had to run out of alcohol when I got there. And the sound system was out. So people were standing around. Correction, a number of fat people were standing around. The good looking ones had already hooked up. They did eventually get the sound systems to work after a little bit, but the security or whatever guy came and shut the whole party down almost immediately after.

In utter despair, I step outside for a fag. Naturally, I discover at that moment that I am out. And there's not an open store in sight.

I sink into the darkest depths of depression. I consider doing a Darth Vader, but I have no light sabre, no funky strangling Force power, no cool robe with ominous hood. Above all, I do not have those special contact lenses. Also, no younglings to slaughter.

So I slink back to my room. Contemplate going out, but decide that whichever club I chose would burn down.

So I surrendered and went to sleep.

On a side note, some people really seem to look good doing or wearing anything. It's quite amazing.

Freud isn't that dumb after all

"Despite my 30 years of research into the feminine soul, I have not yet been able to answer the great question that has never been answered: What does a woman want?"
- Sigmund Freud

Bunch of weirdos

Sigh, I think I came up with a great explanation of what Chicago has taught me thus far. I can now talk about anything in any context, sounding as if I possess a great deal of authority. In other words, I am on my way to becoming either an academic, or a spectacular bore.

I must say that I have never quite met as many self-important and utterly uninteresting people as I have in my two years of college education thus far. Occasionally some of these people are interesting, but seriously, not everyone is all that great. This isn't a movie, where the geeks are invariably really great people. Sometimes geeks are just geeks, and there is a clear reason they aren't altogether popular with people.

I know, I know, I'm a bit of a geek too. And I know I can be boring at times. The thing is, I know it. Not many people have interests similar to me. I'm not a terribly sweet guy. I'm not funny and charming. I will not suddenly become the hunk on campus when I take off my glasses and sweep my hair back. I'm not incredibly fascinating and engaging. I'm not a fantastic person waiting to be discovered. I know it. And I'm not trying to change it. I don't deny it. The truth is the truth. I am not the sort of person whom you just have to get to know in order to like. In fact, you would do better to simply be an acquaintance of mine, than a close friend. Don't get too close, or you'll find me horrible company. I can discourse on practically anything. You don't want to know what I really think about things. It's terribly depressing and convoluted. What I am is cynical and disinterested. Not the classic movie geek. I think I'm more along the lines of Emperor Palpatine. The more you see of him, the less you like him.

The problem with so many people is that they can't admit to themselves that they're not great people. Friendships aren't always harmonious, conversations are not always pleasant, hanging out is not always enjoyable. I recognise the awkwardness and discomfort inherent in so many situations and interactions, and I happily lay the blame at the doorstep of the people involved. Differences exist between people, and it is ridiculous to simply insist that everybody is equal, and entitled to be different, but people aren't really all that different deep down inside. If that were true, then the entire world would be a mess, since everyone is the same as me. Come on, I'm an odd sort. I know it. Every person is different, and I would hope that they are. You are not the same as me, and thus, you are not my equal. I know not if I am superior, for I have no means of measurement. Still, we are not the same. Even if you are similar to me, you can never be the same as me, for my experiences in this universe are absolutely unique in their particularity.

Shall we all just admit that we're weird? Seems to be easier on everyone. So go away and leave me alone, you bunch of weirdos.

You were the Chosen One!

Ok, here we go.

A couple of weeks ago, I headed off to Eastern Europe to have a look. Here is a little rundown of some interesting things that happened while I was there.

In Budapest, which, for those not in the know, is in Hungary, I started out rather disappointed. It was basically a pretty dirty city. Even the monuments and all that had turned black from all the dirt. I eventually did find a couple of nice things though. There was this church, Saint-Stephen's Basilica, I think, which had been rebuilt and renovated recently. Everything in the church was pretty new, with almost zero deterioration, not the usual in a huge church. The marble columns were polished, the floor tiles even and unworn, the seats clean and without splinters, the gold plating still gleaming. To some extent, I suppose it was close to what a pilgrim eight hundred years ago might have seen when he headed to a great basilica. Except that the statues weren't particularly garishly painted. Although they were painted. Which brings me to the thought that struck me when I was walking through it.

The church was somewhat Byzantine in nature. The Oriental influences were obvious in the intricate mosaics, the sharper features of the statues, the explosions of colour everywhere, in contrast to the austerity and stern majesty of Western churches. Even then, I could see the Gothic influences as well. There were the requisite flying buttresses, the traditional layout. I also saw other things such as the cross layout of the interior, the fact that the entrance faced West, the positioning of the spires atop the roof to give the impression of looking into the heavens. The point is that in the course of this quarter, I actually have become a little more educated. The texts that I have read, and the lectures I have listened to in the past weeks have given some little insight and knowledge into how things work.

When I watched Kingdom of Heaven last week, two things struck me. The first was that the writing and directing were really bad. Cutting from scene to scene was jarring, Orlando Bloom was poorly cast, there was too much pandering to the themes of tolerance and inclusion, too many references to the Lord of the Rings. The second was that the entire movie was disgustingly relevant to my recent readings. Noblemen going to the Holy Land to regain Jerusalem, but also grabbing some land for those who had none, a great cross leading the armies of the Christians, the offense taken when someone breaches the strict feudal hierarchy, the absolute faith in God intervening on one's side to ensure victory in battle.

As Don Randel once said, the Core in Chicago has made me a more interesting person at a cocktail party or to sit beside in an airplane.

Other vaguely interesting things include a rather swish train, a totally freaky and scary soviet-looking Romanian border guard, a crappy train compartment going from Bucharest to Vienna with a Romanian, a Slovakian, an American and a Singaporean in it.

Oh oh, on the way to Romania, we were in the train, and going through customs. I think the border guard had never seen a Singaporean artist before, and I'm pretty sure he was calling his friends over to take a look, because we kept getting interrupted. On the way out of Romania, I was travelling alone, and when we were at the Romanian border, one of the border guards asked me where my brother was. Note that this was not one of the guards we had seen on the way in. So somehow, the two Singaporeans had become a story circulating among the guards at the Romanian border. Vaguely cool in a disturbing sort of way.

On a related note, there really weren't too many Chinese in Romania. We got stared at a lot.

I must say that Romanian food isn't very good. As far as I can tell, it's basically grilled meat smothered in some sort of thin tomato-based sauce. Many many repeats later, I did get to eat a bear. Kind of gamey, not my kind of thing. The wine is quite bad too. Oh well, it wasn't meant to be a culinary treat anyway.

Bran Castle, also known in Romanian tourist circles as Dracula's castle, was rather disappointing. I thought it would at least be forbidding and atmospheric. No such luck. It's just a dinky country castle with small rooms and crude furniture. Dracula never even set foot in it. Neither the real nor the fictional one. They didn't even sell fake vampire teeth in the ridiculous Dracula Bazaar outside the castle. I missed going to the church where Vlad Tepes' bones are interred though. Only realised that it was in Bucharest about an hour before my train. Too bad. I would have liked to dance on Dracula's grave.

Romania has no tourist development. It is quite disgusting how it's so hard to do anything. I mean, even the simplest things can be fucked up. I wanted to go to the top of the mountain next to Brasov, to get a panoramic view of the place. So I had to trek halfway up the mountain in order to get to the base of the cable car station. Why on earth is the cable car to take people up the mountain halfway up? It should be near the base! Bloody morons. Then when I got to the top, the viewing areas were blocked by trees. So I trekked halfway up the mountain to take the cable car up, and when I get to the top, I have to peek through branches to see anything? Who thought up and executed this brilliant idea? Morons. The thing is, it was quite nice up there. If they made the slightest effort, it would be a rather pleasant experience. Instead, the only place I could get a clear view of the quite pretty city was the cable car platform. So I had maybe 30 seconds to snag a pic and admire it. Ridiculous.

The only touristy thing I really saw in Bucharest was the huge number of pimps. Everywhere I walked, I was accosted by men offering me 'beautiful girl'. A little ridiculous. How many prostitutes are there in that city? I believe that it is set up such that there is a network of girls, and the pimps are freelance, who can call into the network for a commission. It's the only viable business structure that is apparent to me. These people cannot possibly have exclusive rights.

A fat man told me that he spoke very good French, so when he goes to Paris on holiday in a few weeks, 'he is very pretty.' (in French) A little disturbing. But I did realise the mistake, and I could read the inscription inside L'Arc de Triomphe, as well as most of the subtitles in the cinemas. I am getting a little of the language. Wish it didn't take so long though.

Which reminds me. I finally watched Star Wars last night. I liked it. Some of the dialogue is truly dire, but otherwise it was pretty well-made. Fantastic, gorgeous landscapes, perfect special effects, Yoda kicking ass, tremendously cool Obi-Wan Kenobi. What more can you ask from a Star Wars movie? Some weak attempts at settling outstanding issues towards the end though. And Jar-Jar Binks gets zero dialogue, and 2 seconds of screen time! So I suppose the good balances out the bad. I'll remember it as a cool action movie that has tremendous significance in the movie world for the setup of the world of Star Wars. There was even one good bit of dialogue at the end from Obi-Wan Kenobi after the fight with Anakin Darth Vader. Of course, Anakin had to spoil it with a pathetic comeback. And the fully upgraded Darth Vader managed to make himself look very dumb in his only scenes.

Ok, class is over. I'm off.

Siren call

Ok, a return to blogging by request. Somebody has pointed out to me that I did write that I would continue the account of my travels a mere week ago. I must admit that such a promise had slipped my mind, as I am sure many others have. Chastised, I shall endeavour to proceed now.

Hmmm, it appears that I have failed. By the leave of she who made the request, I shall return to this on the morrow. Now, sleep beckons, and the siren call is tempting.

Clark Kent

Sigh, just dragged myself back from Marseille and now I'm in class again. Marseille was reasonably pleasant, I suppose. The Provencal countryside was not bad at all. Fairly picturesque, very quiet, loads of rich people in Porsches. Seems like a pretty nice place to retire to. Not so good if you're still vaguely young, since it takes something like an hour to get into town.

It has occurred to me that while those of us who live in cities romanticise the countryside, people who actually live in the countryside probably romanticise the city. After all, we look on the country bumpkin with some disdain as he stumbles through a small city for the first time, jaw slack, eyes to the sky and staring at the mediocre skyscrapers. Yet the man from the city finds himself royalty in the countryside. Perhaps it is only the money, but it seems that it is something more.

Do note that I was referring to the type of countryside where the rural are poor, and the urban richer. Say, like much of China these days. In places like Provence, where the property is expensive, and the cars flashy, there is little difference, since the distinction is purely voluntary. Still, even in such a case, the choice is not made by the dependents. If a couple chooses to move to the Provencal countryside and soak in the atmosphere and be able to claim that they live in Provence, their children don't get a vote. And it is the children that will be formed irrevocably by the experience. In the formative first 15 or 20 years, these children will find themselves isolated from the bustle of city life, and naturally fail to acquire the required savvy and expectations that a child in a metropolis would.

Classic example, Superman. No matter how long Clark Kent has been in Metropolis, he is still a farmboy from Kansas. To a large extent, this is the explanation for his altruism. The concept that he was from the heartland of America, and in the bucolic, idealised vision of rural life, it seems natural for people to help each other. This is why he is shocked by crime, and feels the need to help those require it. Morals are more important than appearances and self-preservation. Of course, Superman gets around this by being invulnerable. Even then, when he meets enemies that do pose real physical danger to him, he is able to square off against them without hesitation, for he has no moral ambiguity. All arising from his upbringing in the countryside.

For most people who aren't of Kryptonian origin, such an upbringing with a similar effect on the personality would result only in the Clark Kent side of things. Remember that Kent is essentially a loser. He only manages to become vaguely successful due to the confidence that comes from being Superman.

In any case, comic book references aside, one of the problems I have with all those social theorists who are so enamoured of their image of the bucolic farm is that there is a serious misconception of how most farmers live. While I do not claim to be personally familiar with farm life, I am fairly certain that aside from the rich sorts in Western Europe and America, who are supported by the wealthy state, rural life isn't all it's cracked up to be. Imagine working 12 hours a day in the fields, not sitting at a desk and staring at spreadsheets, but hard labour. I find it hard to believe that anyone would voluntarily give up being an investment banker or lawyer to work similar hours of physical labour in a muddy field. Not only the hours suck, but probably the pay and the food as well. There really is a reason people leave the farms to live in the city.

Similarly, I don't really understand why some people stick to cities even in dire poverty. I would imagine that if you cannot pay the rent for even a tiny room in a terrible part of town, your kids are starving and you have no electricity because you cannot pay the bills, you would leave and find work on a farm or something. If nothing else, I'm sure one can find work in a rural setting if minimal pay is accepted. No one owes you a living, and if you are unable to prosper, then you should be prepared to lower your opinion of yourself and accept that you will have to abase yourself somewhat. Pride is a fun thing, but sometimes you have to swallow it to eat.

Alright, that was an undirected meander. Luckily it was fairly short. I'm going to listen to class now.

Back

Ok, back from the break, finally. Bloody tiring week, though it was pretty interesting, all things considered.

I actually thought about some things I want to ramble about, and it was a fairly long list, so I'm going to list it, and work through it.

1) The break, obviously

2) My dream house

3) My writing style

4) People entering my world

Dammit, there was quite a lot more, but I seem to have forgotten. Ah well, I'll start with the break.

Whether people know it or not, I hopped off to Romania on this week long break. Absolutely gorgeous country. Not the pin-you-against-the-wall kind of beauty, but a more quiet sort. It's old, crusty, unpleasant, aggressive. That sort of beauty. Imagine what the landscape of, say, Beowulf might have been like, ideally. It was simply all mountains, rocky crags, forbidding forests. I loved it, but I don't want to live there. Some places are pleasant. This was not.

I've seen some places that are supposed to be beautiful, and some of them really are. Guilin was a Chinese painting come to life. Many Chinese paintings, in fact. Everywhere you look, there is a sight that is fully worthy of immortality. That is truly the definition of a beautiful landscape. There were mountains, rocks with interesting shapes, well-placed rivers, forests that looked like they were landscaped. Take every Chinese landscape painting you have ever seen, at least the pretty ones, and you will find something of the like in Guilin. Thoroughly pleasant experience.

It must be said though, that I got tremendously tired of the scenery after a while. On a cruise down the river, it was quite breathtaking to stand on the deck and admire the sights that presented themselves as you drift along. It does get a little tiring to keep having your breath taken away. Hard to get enough oxygen. So I ended up hanging out belowdecks playing cards.

Versailles was absolutely fantastic to look at. The gardens, at least. Exactly what I would imagine a gigantic landscaped garden would look like. I think that is more or less what I would do with a huge garden and felt like making it gorgeous. Vast manicured lawns, glittering canal, carefully maintained shrubs, dramatic statues coming out of the fountains. It was a fantasy fulfilled, just as Guilin was. Guilin was the ideal upon which the beauty of China was created. The gardens of Versailles were the realisation of the Western concept of beauty.

The Romanian countryside was a totally different archetype of beauty. It was the more savage Europe of old legend. Sure, there were cultivated fields, and houses all along the way. But the fields looked raw and unpolished, not the immaculate patchwork quilt of rural France. The houses were small and crude. I cannot imagine that the inhabitants of the little huts lead lives anything like the bucolic ideal invoked by the sight of the English countryside. The roads were mud tracks, carved out of the brush. Carts drawn by thin, weary horses ambled along, often trailed by dogs following their masters. The forests were thick, foreboding, not allowing the light to penetrate. There is sign of life within, but most likely whatever you see is a bear or wolf, the largest populations of which in Europe live among the trees of Romania. Looking into the forests, I did not feel that civilisation had any place in there.

I would never get tired of looking at the Romanian countryside. At the same time, I am not drawn to it, am not comfortable with it. Yes, comfort is the key issue here. I could turn my back on the sights of Guilin because I was comfortable with them. I felt familiar with the landscape, having had them embedded in my cultural consciousness. So when I felt that I had come to grips with it, had a clear handle on what the landscape was about, I could then accept it and live with it, including turning away from admiring it. I never quite felt that I knew the Romanian landscape well enough to leave it at my back. Even in the train leaving it, I sat in the dining car, surrounded by smoke, watching the mountains slide by until the rising dusk stole it from the windows.

So I would not want to live in the Romanian countryside, for it does not give me ease. Still, there is a savage sort of beauty to it. Not harsh, just not overly civilised, as Western Europe inevitably is. If Shanghai is a young woman, flaunting her newly blossomed wares, and Paris is a grand old dame, graceful in age and secure in privilege, then Romania is like a middle-aged man, who has worked the farms all his life, worn with the labour, dirt in every pore and line, but secure in the knowledge of his place in the world, in society, in heaven.

Alright, more on the subject later. Right now, I'm starving, so I'm off to find dinner. Coming soon, various interesting occurrences on the trip.

Five minute rant

What an immensely fucked up weekend. The original plan was to go to Rome, and spend four days there alone, exploring the one city I've always always wanted to go to my whole life, but somehow never did. Instead, I stayed in Paris to finish the final essay for my class. Then I was supposed to go to Vienna on saturday instead, since I didn't want to rush Rome. And of course, I didn't get around to writing the damn essay, and I didn't go either. Toyed with heading to Budapest a day early, but that clearly didn't materialise as well.

So now I'm flying direct to Budapest on Monday. Well, things could be worse.

Currently scribbling the addresses and confirmation numbers and all that on random pieces of paper because I can't get the printer in my dorm to work. This feels like a total waste of technology. A chunk of electronics in my lap, the culmination of thousands of years of scientific advance, and I'm writing down the results on pieces of paper.

In other news, I think I've met my complete opposite. It's amazing how different a person can be from another. See, she's female, healthy, runs a lot, eats vegetables, even raw bean sprouts, blonde, speaks French, does all sorts of charity work, smiles and laughs a great deal, and is generally a really nice sort of person. I tell you, it's like a negative image of myself. Quite startling, actually. If opposites attract, we'd have a manmade black hole between us. Good thing I don't believe in that theory.

Oh yeah, my weekend managed to get even more fucked up this morning. My slipper broke! One of the straps snapped, and I can't go and buy a new one because everything is closed on Sunday in Paris. Stupid Kenneth Cole. Can't even make a decent pair of slippers. Come on, how hard can it be? So now I'm heading to Eastern Europe without a pair of slippers to my name.

Just snippets today. Felt like ranting, so I did for five minutes exactly. I am now going to buy a bottle of wine, drink it, then pack for a week traipsing through Dracula country.

Kungfu monk

Sometimes, this city really can be quite amazing.

I stepped outside my dorm for a moment yesterday, and saw a monk pass by. Not just any monk, but one of those kungfu types from the kitschy martial arts novels. He was wearing the conical straw hat, saffron robes gathered at the elbows and knees to allow for maximum range and comfort of movement, straw sandals. Oh, oh, he was also carrying that bowl thing you always see them carry in the kungfu movies, a big, metal bowl that, I'm guessing, is supposed to be used to beg for alms, but always ends up being a weapon, thrown in a whirling arc to whomp someone on the head, or simply as a replacement for brass knuckles. And who on earth wears straw sandals these days? Don't they wear out really quickly?

Anyway, so this kungfu monk was strolling down a street in Paris, right next to a hundred other pedestrians, in one of the few ultramodern scenes in the city, a road under construction. Quite remarkable. I stood there for a while, staring at his back.

Then I finally went to my first real warehouse party last night. All the previous versions somehow paled next to this. Stuffed with gypsies, cheap beer, an incredible amount of marijuana smoke in the air, a hippy band, and all in a totally abandoned warehouse, as in the roof was in pieces, the place was filthy, you had to hop over a gigantic puddle to get to the door, a dog was hanging out at the bar, some weird art thingy projected on the wall on the ground floor. Atmosphere, the crucial ingredient to making something cool. I think that's what Singapore really lacks. You can't really create an atmosphere unless it springs up on its own. It really wasn't my sort of scene, but I was still sucked in by the concept and execution of it.

Ok, I'm totally not flowing today. Been attacking my paper for days now, and it's just not giving in. Never written so slowly in my life.

Benefits

It's really rather amazing. One thing I have noticed in the numerous and wearying political debates I have been unfortunate enough to bear witness to is that invariably even the smartest, most informed and educated persons are trapped by their class. Considering that the middle class is growing remarkably fast, it is this group that is beginning to dominate the debates.

This morning, while waiting for the class to start, the professor, who is French, somehow got into a discussion of labour compensation with some of the American students. The contents were predictable, with the Frenchman arguing for quality of life, higher minimum wages, lower maximum wages, reduced workweek, acceptance of higher prices as the cost of eating a real chicken, and the Americans taking the side of classical economics. What struck me is the complete failure of the Frenchman to see how individualistic his view is, even as it is a completely social one.

The French apparently have far less of a concept of the importance of the individual than Americans. So they retain the concept of a culture, and this culture is far more important for each person to maintain than to forge an individual identity. So it is that the average French citizen will support high unemployment benefits, government subsidised healthcare and public transport, high taxes, more equitable distribution of income, and so on. Of course, there are other things, such as the food, the wine, and all that, but those are not at issue here. So the Frenchman sees himself as part of a society. As opposed to this, the classic American stance is that of Adam Smith's invisible hand, where by each pursuing his or her own interests, the greater interests of society are served best. Society is the individual. How the citizen fares is the indicator of how the society is doing. For the French, how every citizen fares is the indicator.

This is pretty much obvious to all. What marked today's argument for my attention today was that the French professor, by all accounts a very educated man, failed to acknowledge that his notion of society was merely the middle class and above. For the reasonably well-off, certainly, paying a higher price for a real chicken, as opposed to the cheaper genetically modified chicken, is totally acceptable. The difference is not significant enough to really alter consumption patterns. What about the poor? What about those people for whom a chicken is a luxury? My parents tell me so many stories of how when they were children, families ate chicken once a year. Is the insistence of the affluent that all should be willing to pay more for real chickens worth more than the opportunity for kids to eat meat more than once a year?

There's always the argument that in France, there are unemployment benefits and all that. How long can this system last if other countries that are more efficient start stealing jobs?

Ah, I don't really give a damn. I'm tired, and don't want to type anymore.

Social animals

I am so tired of pretending to be sociable. I'm really not a person who even vaguely enjoys people. I just don't. I'm not being cynical, not being deliberately anti-social, not being grouchy. I'm simply being true to myself. I don't enjoy people all that much.

I am so looking forward to spending a few days alone in Rome, where I won't know anyone, and I don't speak the language. A little sphere of isolation in the midst of millions of people. It's been so long since I've done something like that. I think that's why even in Singapore, I enjoy going to movies early on weekday mornings. There aren't any people in the theatres in the mornings, and then I just chill out and take a walk through the hdb estates, or the parks. I detest the surroundings, but chances are that I won't know anybody there, and nobody will bother me.

I I I I I. I need so much to withdraw a little bit, to forget that there are other people in the world. I don't really want a posse. A personal assistant might be nice though, just to make sure that nobody bothers me, and things go smoothly enough that I don't need to talk to anyone unless I feel like it. The automated world of science fiction nightmares actually sounds pretty appealing. Interact purely with machines, people don't go near you, you don't need to read people. Machines are predictable, that is their nature and their point. If a machine is unpredictable, then it considered faulty. A person is not in need of other persons. Honestly, it is so tiring to read and manipulate others. Yes, manipulate, for what is an interaction other than an attempt to get what you want out of the other, whether that be material gain or something as simple as a smile.

Some people are quite impossible to read, at least for me. Actually, that's not true. There is hardly anyone I cannot read to my satisfaction, but there are people whom I cannot understand. It is like a book. Some books you can read, but cannot understand what possessed the author to hold such views. People don't think like that, do they? Apparently, they do. What scares me about such people is that I cannot effectively manipulate them if I find their motivations unintelligible. Meaning only exists as far as one's own sphere of understanding, and anything that exists outside of it is impossible to know or to control. Failure to exert control is completely unacceptable. I need control. Perhaps that is why I prefer my own company. I can control myself, given time. Even if I cannot fully control my own mind and emotions in a given amount of time, at the least, I understand myself. I am self-aware, a state which is the absolute qualifier for sentience, in my opinion. Being self-aware, I find it difficult to accept being unable to be aware of others. Despite any illusions of understanding of others I may maintain, the truth is that there are always depths which I have yet to plumb. I cannot fully understand another person, for that would require a complete knowledge of the other, coupled with a full comprehension of personality, which is not possible, given that I am ot that person. So that point of view is beyond me. The best I can do is to simulate it. Simulations are not fully realistic, for I cannot know everything about anybody. Even myself, I can only approach understanding, not reach it.

I want to be alone for a while. Maybe I can pretend to be Descartes and lock myself in a room for a while. I liked my winter break this year. I was mostly alone in my apartment, doing what I wanted, going out only when I felt like it. For three weeks, I was fairly isolated. I talked to few people, and never felt lonely. Some people say it gets boring to be alone. Well, they clearly do not understand the boredom I experience when I speak but say nothing. I do not need people. Man may be a social animal, but I wish to be an anomaly. Isn't that what we all want?