The Monkey Mind

Just finished reading the short novel The Stranger by Albert Camus, and what stays with me most is not the crime alone, but the strange-familiar stillness of the man who commits it. From the very beginning, the narrative places us inside Meursault’s mind, and through his detached voice, we encounter a peculiar form of alienation. The novel opens with the death of his mother, a woman he visited only on Sundays, and sometimes not even then. Their relationship had grown so distant that they were almost strangers. He had little in common with her, little to say, and perhaps little to feel, and he knew she felt the same. When she dies, he does not cry, nor does he attempt to fake grief. He attends the funeral because it’s expected, but he does not ask to have the coffin opened. Most would have asked to have the nails removed to see their dead parent one last time; he does not. Time had already sealed that distance long before the coffin was nailed shut. This detachment is not cruelty; witho...

By the grace of an inquisitive mind, the body searches for a possible solution to the conundrum of existence. What, where, when, which, how, and so on—the questions constantly meditate on the nature of the self, the world, and purpose, propelling us forward, whether swiftly or sluggishly, toward a certain destination. The thirst for self-knowledge is always there; it's just difficult to sit still, contemplate it, and then put it into words. Is the body not meant to keep moving rather than remain still? Signals summon us to uncover certain aspects of truth. We become fascinated by its different facets, enthralled by their depth, and tunnel-visioned into a particular dimension—drowning in the sheer weight of its magnitude. Yet, as the confusion clears, the weight of our own existence grows, making it difficult to move as lightly as before. We become rigid in our own truth, shaped by a worldview that, despite its significance to us, remains but a minuscule fragment of the whole. Only...

Freedom is neither an illusion nor a delusion. It is a choice—independent of any influence or external force. Yet, every choice carries consequences, whether beneficial or harmful, in both the short and long term. At its core, freedom is the ability to choose, based on the belief that truth is, in essence, of our own making. External forces—governments, corporations, and other authorities—capitalize on this belief. They control our perception of truth, shaping our decision-making. But ultimately, we are our own greatest enemy—the most loyal wardens of our own prison. A prison built from identity, social status, boundaries, differences, and countless other constraints. And the bitter truth is that there are many things we do not need—we want them simply because someone else wants them. This wanting creates an opportunity for exploitation. Our mind space is occupied by thoughts that are not our own, desires that are not our own—tempting lies that carve out a sense of inadequacy that, in ...

There is nothing wrong with me. It's just that the righteous feeling I have cultivated since childhood has stayed with me until this day. So, each time I encounter you, or more precisely, a version of you in another person, I hesitate. I cannot break free from the usual loop of thinking about you, searching for you, and for so long imagining myself being with you. Beyond that, there is nothing but the authority of time, which strips away all my feelings, and once again, I am back. Back to my comfort zone where all emotions fade. I am no longer myself, and you are no longer yourself. I remain in the void, and everything that once was is no more. There is nothing to discuss. Endless hours and days just slip away. Here I am, in the middle of my physical age, and the question has arisen once again. So, I dictate, my thoughts fragmented, my sentences half-formed, incoherent in a way that feels disconnected. I am disconnected from the conversation that surrounds me. I rarely think about ...

      To embrace my beloved, for so long, as tenderly as possible, is to be the luckiest person alive. (pic credit: Xích Diễm Cố Tích) Love, what an idea it is! lifetime after lifetime, humanity has marveled at its existence. The ability to love as the most beautiful aspect of our being, brings us closer to the truth about ourselves; of who we were, are and, will be.  We love, honestly, as honest as a person can be, in our own subjective way, with devotion bordering the height of the heavens and generosity as vast as the Buddha's heart. We can soar carefree and or endure drudgery when we earn the love for which we fight with all our being. Fighting, the good fight!  Love binds us all. In ways i.e. magical where I am, myself no more for "I" have thee in my mind, here in the most cherished memories in my heart, here within my very being, my dearest  even when I am all alone especially then, boxed within the silence of concrete chained to the wall li...

The end .  All beginnings start from there. There is no BS, no excuses, no nothing's.  With all the social anxiety enveloping the consciousness, we are never true to our self , to the ego to which we owe our entire puny existence, each breath, every moment spent to its eventual next. Thus, the end is not an option but a necessity. It is the forgiveness for all our grandiose mistakes we have realized but nobody cared. It is the boredom in the cacophony of human noise celebrating life and congratulating their momentary achievement to themselves.  It is logical, that applause.  Yet is it only me or what, it feels hollow, a truly brittle sham. Only for the good time, the celebration lasts unlike tragedy that is heavier than this body of yours and mine that contains the existence called life And that life needs to end End only ending is where a new beginning blossoms For it is death that gives meaning to life For it is darkness where light shines brightest In the polarity...