Arbit thoughts of a jobless mind

I speak in excerpts of my thoughts, rather disjointed, fractured they are. I must work at effective communication. I view writing as a way of organising as well as purging my thoughts. Hence, the following. This is, I think, the most feasible, and, unobtrusive medium through which I can expound my opinions/ideas/worldview on the rather motley range of things that prey on my mental faculties and take up a lot of mental activity.

Besides, its a sunday, and my prior engagements have been cancelled. This is practise,so I do not slide into the words-don't-flow-from-me-anymore mode.


Every new person one meets outside of one’s habitat is a potential clean slate. Whoever doesn’t know about one’s background is another potential study in the dynamics of human psychology and the organic matrix of interpersonal relationships. One can present any picture of oneself. Unless the person at the other end interacts with other people who know one, that person, in all probability, will fill in the blanks themselves and form a mental picture not completely congruous to that formed by other persons one interacts with. Hence, a world peopled with polygonal, multicephalous human beings.

But well, one’s entire existence can only be effectively called real and worthful if and only if it is acknowledged/sanctioned/approved(?) by other points in that vast organic matrix called society. One might as well disintegrate into ectoplasm if nobody else could be bothered enough to acknowledge one’s existence.

At this point, I must post a disclaimer. I do not, in any audacity, claim to be possessed of an extraordinarily keen facility of observation, nor any bloated repository of knowledge about the intricate interdependent functioning of the world. On the contrary, I’ve viewed only a microcosm of it which cannot, by any stretch of imagination, be taken as a reliable sample to make generalisations about.

Consider a name. What purpose would it serve if it were not spoken of by the other assorted inmates of this reality-prison? A group of syllables, merely, to facilitate better retrieval from memory, communication, and to inject order into society. Identity is a myth in one’s head to reassure oneself of one’s worth in the grander scheme of things, whatever that be, and an ostrich-like state of denial in the face of impermanence.

Entire human lifespans evaporate leaving little, or no trace at all. Only memories, in other humans' heads, other humans with equally short lifespans. Perhaps that is why men of yore sought to build magnificent tributes to their vanity, (pyramids, et al) why humans of a slightly elevated, enlightened plane, in all epochs, have sought to create things of enduring allure-- things of art. It is one's only shot at preservation, immortality, dare I say?