An Introvert's Introspection

what is depression? the walls caving in around you. realizing the futility of your existence and how meaningless everything you do is. the vastness of the universe and the obscurity of our actions in comparison. the epochs of time that have spanned before and after our lives. people say that you must inject your own meaning into this life; that to love is to live. but that will never be realized for me. i am a social outcast, a hermit, a loser among the losers. my only interaction with people is in my day to day actions in my profession. who truly cares about my condition. not a single person in this world. you exist one day and you are forgotten the next. waiting to die, but not wanting to suffer in the process. that is my goal.

The piano strings reverberate mightily as her petite but calloused fingers passionately depress the keys.

As she becomes more engaged in the performance, her eyes involuntarily close and she begins to lurch back and forth on the piano bench.

The apotheosis of the piece, a furtive crescendo generates in her a transient self-assuredness- a marked reprieve from her insecure, stoic disposition.

These headaches will never pass. They split the mind, unweave my thoughts, and impede my productivity. A persistent drilling in my skull, they are unrelenting in nature. Throbbing and pulsating, I look for reprieve in anything and everything.

Now this is the final straw, I have borne them for far too long. I approach the Bunsen burner with my scalpel. I hold it in the flame for several moments in the act of sterilization. I grab a knot of rope from the closet and hesitantly place it in my mouth, clenching it between my teeth.

With brevity, I pierce the scalp with the blade, pointed-end first. The blood gushes out like amnion, and I begin to bite harder into the rope. I grab the handle and methodically pull the blade downward in a slicing motion. A large pool of blood collects at my feet, and I begin to feel faint. My teeth begin to sore, at which time I notice the rope is soaked in my saliva and spilling over my lips, onto my body and on the floor. The saliva contacts the pool of blood at my feet, but is assimilated without struggle.

Several minutes later, I am able to locate the mass by palpating my brain with my bare hands. It feels spongy and resilient. In an act of catharsis, I grab it with my forefinger and thumb and pull laterally until it is torn off.

Bringing the two flaps of skin overlying either side of the dissected portion of my scalp together, I apply surgical staples to seal the incision. With a final spurt of effort, I cleanse my head with scented soap and water before collapsing on the ground.

The towering mud-faced, boil-infested demon draws nearer and nearer, forewarning impended doom. It bears a tough green and blue exoskeleton and razor-sharp black pincers that hypnotically snap open and shut. It is bulkily-built, being at least four or five times wider than the largest of humans, but yet remarkably moves with the swiftness and agility of a black Eurasian panther. A perverse stench of rotting flesh accompanies the beast as it unwittingly approaches the cornered young warrior male and older female wench. Both are wretches, banished to the netherspace, condemned to destruction by the King of the Overworld, as a consequence of engaging in sodomy.

The male draws his sword, the well-known Holy Infiltrator from his leather-strapped belt. Its cold titanium façade glistens in the dim light, with the embedded crimson ruby in the centre of the sword vibrating in harmonic resonance with the crushing footsteps of the approaching beast.

From her weathered and ragged knapsack, slung around her neck and hovering over her crotch, the female draws a zippered, miniature sac – seemingly empty – but handled with utmost care and forbearance. In concurrency, the woman mutters half-breathed an archaic verse from the Scripture of Seva alluding to the antiquated, forlorn battle of David and the Goliath.

Matted, muddied, and scabies-infested, the maiden unzips the sac and pours its contents of asphyxiating, lacquer-smelling, molasses-characterized syrup over the crimson ruby enveloping its shimmer and former glory.

The Holy Infiltrator begins to disintegrate unilaterally, beginning from the foci, which abruptly accumulates into a billow of beach sand at the feet of the two sodomites.

Instantaneously, the sand is transmogrified into a bellowing, prodigious, rabid turquoise-coloured king cobra serpent that pierces with its flashing poisonous fangs into the jugular vein of the demon, instantly bringing it to its stomach in death.

The serpent vanishes and the sword and sac of magic dust reappear on the heathen ground, and in synchronicity, the surviving two engage in lecherous conduct.

The solitude is overbearing for the boy, and he fears he will never escape its grasp, comparing it to the hand of death. Friendship and companionship have always eluded him, although he desires it with all of his heart. He listens by the window, with his head tilted obtusely, and his right ear pushed against the mesh screen. He hears the birds chirping in chorus proclaiming the morning sun. They sing in harmony, taunting the boy of their everlasting metaphysical relationship.

He wishes God would bless him with greatness, like Mozart – the prodigal boy genius infinitely talented in composition. The boy remembers how Mozart once remarked, and he knows this because he is a fervent studier of his biography, that true genius stems from the visceral senses – the eyes and ears – and not in the mind which acts rationally, inhibiting risk-taking and inventiveness. The boy believes this to be the eternal dichotomy, and wonders how his analytical nature has hindered in reaching his life-long aspirations. Instead he compares himself to the Classical-Romantic composer Ludwig van Beethoven in toiling, brooding and revising - perpetually unsatisfied.

He has limited hope for his future – in all aspects of work, health and companionship. He knows he will not be remembered until the end of time like the artists he so greatly admires and aspires to. He is alive now and will be so for an insignificant future time, before turning to dust.

We live in a world plagued with bigotry and hatred, prejudice and intolerance. In this era and time, none more conspicuously stands as that of religious extremism. In sparing the more intricate points, which are better so learned from a good text, these so-called righteous men believe their scriptures as infallible. Their sole mission in life is to advance their political ideology - which nearly always hides behind a facade of false religion. They claim their work is aligned with the teachings of their supreme beings, which seems justifiable when they quote aptly from their religious scriptures. Their victims are indoctrinated only by falling prey to enormously skewed and slandered excerpts and prophecies.

The epicentre of these monstrocities is self-evident. Intolerance more easily breeds in the hearts and minds of the uneducated and impoverished, whom look to fundamentalism for salvation for themselves and their families. This salvation exists in the form of food, money, shelter and protection. After surviving entire generations in sub-standard living conditions; any promise of a better life is enough to grab.

Miseducation breeds intolerance too, as people blindly accept the doctrine of others. They are neither able to critically analyze nor penetrate the alterior motives of others.

What are the possible solutions? A universally educated, informed and critical society with basic access to food, water and shelter. A paradigm shift in education from one that promotes bigotry to one of inclusion regardless of their race, religion, colour, creed or sexual orientation. A proper understanding of religious scriptures.

It is in all of our best interests to support a modernization such as this - for political, humanitarian or other reasons.

Support the work of these remarkable organizations which help make a true difference in peoples' daily lives:

International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC)

Let's face it, if there were an Alcoholics Anonymous equivalent for video gamers, I would be it's chief patron - and, my friends, I say that with great pride.

The fantasy world is my utopia; my sanctuary from the dystopian realities of the real world. Games help me move beyond the mundane routines and harsh truths of our day-to-day grind. They transcend my insatiable appetite for material possession and monetary wealth, instead creating a world where imagination and wit - coupled with a hint of dexterity - provide me with life-changing experiences.

As a testament to the aforementioned remarkability of video gaming, we are now entering the, believe it or not, seventh generation of video game consoles. The three key players, of course, being Sony, Microsoft and Nintendo with the Playstation 3, Xbox 360, and Wii, respectively.

Since the revelation of the three consoles at Electronics Entertainment Expos (E3) 2005 and 2006, there has been considerable controversy over which would reign supreme in popularity:

Nintendo initially seemed poised to win the generational war as a result of the introduction of its revolutionary motion-sensing control mechanism - consisting of the intuitive Wiimote and Nunchuk peripheries.

Their commercial strategy, an attempt to broaden the video gaming market, was generally lauded by critics - ultimately leading the Wii to win Best of Show at E3 2006. However, beyond the Expo, there existed significant uncertainty about the longevity of Nintendo's latest effort - specifically, whether Wii's novel controlling scheme would compensate for its sub-par technical capabilities- most evident in graphics and audio processing.

In retrospect, we see those claims being perfectly legitimate. Two years into the latest three-way console war, although Nintendo still remains at the leaderboard in month-to-month console sales, it remains dead last in software availability and sales. Third-party developers have abandoned most hardcore gaming projects for the Wii, and have instead opted for production on the technically superior PS3 and Xbox 360. In an effort to quell pessimism about the future of the console, Nintendo execs have rebranded and remarketed their product in an effort to target the casual gaming audience. As such, they have largely abandoned the hardcore gaming niche that was promised exclusive and innovative titles for the Wii. The future of the Wii looks bleak. It has restricted its target gaming audience to fraction of its original size, and is developing dimensionless, bland titles that will only appease the most novice of gamers.

The Xbox 360 is another story, however. Revealed and subsequently released a year prior to the Playstation 3 and Wii, the 360 is the most developed of the lot. Although technically inferior to the PS3, the 360's early release allowed it to capture much of the third-party support and development as well as gaming market. As such, the 360 leads the three consoles in total software releases, as well as total console sales. The future of the Xbox 360 is uncertain however. Although it remains the number one competitor for the Playstation 3, the technical superiority of the PS3, along with its ability to play Blu Ray Discs - the winner of the latest format war - puts the PS3 in great position to surpass the Xbox 360.

Finally we turn to my pick for winner of the seventh generation console war - the Playstation 3. Initially touted as worst of show at E3 2006, due to its lack of innovation or creativity, the PS3 has steadily bounced back, in part, due to shuffling in management, marketing and price.
To show why the PS3 is destined for video gaming success, it is important to show that the PS3 is much more technically advanced than either the Xbox 360 or Nintendo Wii. Its 3.2 Ghz central processing unit, coupled with a dedicated graphics processing unit and use of Blu Ray media affords the PS3 the ability to produce more complex games, more advanced worlds, larger environments and sharper high-definition video and audio output than all other consoles.

Of course, a discussion of the hardware specifications of the PS3 wouldn't be complete without highlighting the Blu Ray player embedded in the PS3. Blu Ray readability, which allows playback of Blu Ray Discs (BDs) allows unsurpassed audio and video output, in part, due the huge storage capacity of up to 50 Gb. This allows for games to be much bigger, as well as enabling them to be played in high definition at full 1080p output, as mentioned previously. The Xbox 360, which utilizes HD DVDs offer only 1/6th of the storage capacity of BDs, resulting in much simpler games and gaming environments, thus limiting the innovativeness and depth of future developed games. As well, Blu Ray, having been victorious in the latest format war versus HD-DVD means that it is the only rightful successor to DVD. A built-in Blu Ray player in the PS3 thereby allows users to take full advantage of the next generation high definition format - which is already springing to life with the latest releases in cinema and television. Even if one were to purchase the PS3 solely for its Blu Ray capabilities, it would be a prudent investment in itself, as the only other comparable Blu Ray player on the market is priced at $499; $100 more than the price of the console system.

Beyond an enormous processing capability, and Blu Ray utilization, the PS3 offers customizable internal storage hard drive capacity, built-in Bluetooth, backwards compatibility with Playstation 2 games, and free online gaming - none of which Xbox 360 is even marginally able to match.

Finally, we must speak toward the future of software development for the PS3. As Sony execs have stated the shelf-life of the PS3 to be 10 years, we can expect to see consistent title development, as well as exponentially advanced games as developers begin to utilize the fuller processing power of the console. Already, we have seen a substantiative transition in the quality of games being produced for the PS3, from early 2006 to the present. If this is any indication of the future of gaming development for the console, we should be looking forward to a big bright future with the PS3.

Lil Wayne, the self-proclaimed king of hip-hop delivers another solid performance on his latest LP, Tha Carter III.

Widely regarded for his lyrical creativity, electrifying performances, and swaggering personality, Lil Wayne's latest effort lives up to the hype that has surrounded the album since its announcement. Initially scheduled for release in 2007, Tha Carter III was delayed several times due to creative differences between the artist and management - which seems to have paid off.

Wayne's raspy crooning coupled with infectious beats, an all-star cast of producers and guest performers create an album that is thusfar unmatched in extravagance. The first track '3 peat', which is entirely ad libbed, showcases Wayne's quick wit and hyperactive thought process. He raps about everything from grandmothers, guns, Viagra, New Orleans, his greatness and ESPN - all in a single track; the only downside being that the verses are not necessarily coherent.

Tracks like 'Lollipop' and 'Mr. Carter' prove that Lil Wayne that is commercially viable, while others like 'Phone Home' and 'Dr. Carter' affirm his reputation among die-hard hip-hop and rap fans.

Interestingly, the final track on the album, 'Don't Get It' offers the greatest insight into Lil Wayne's psyche. At a lengthy 12 minutes (the first 3 of which are rap), Carter's social commentary on violence, incarceration and drugs in the black community is quite controversial, yet lyrically incredible. All in all, a great album and a must buy.

So, I turned on the news yesterday to check out what the latest pundits were spinning, and lo and behold I stumble on CNN's headline news channel with Glenn Beck at the forefront. Now normally I usually just keep continuing past, but this time something quite outrageous caught my attention.



The aforementioned clip just reaffirms my contempt for ignorant shits like these. Although Beck does in fact state he believes that Islam has been 'hijacked' in the name of terrorist activities, he simply doesn't advocate those beliefs in his questions to the interviewee. He flat out equivocates the congressman with terrorists, only under the premise of his chosen beliefs; which he has to free right to affirm and practice.

In stark contrast to Beck's guilty-by-association proposition, the majority of adherents of Islam have denounced the fundamentalist extremist views of the terrorists that have sought to 'hijack' the religion. This is exactly the kind of right-wing propaganda that fuels bigotry and ignorance in America, which is exactly why more citizens than ever are flocking to agents of change. People are fed up of the old-school politics of fear and manipulation, and Beck's commentary is exactly what we need less of in the mainstream media.

If you think this is an isolated incident, think again. Beck has perpetuated more bullshit like this than one would think. Take some examples of what he said, which are transcribed from his show on CNN's Headline News, as well as his daytime radio talkshow [credit http://lefthandplay.blogspot.com]:

• Illegal immigrants are "trying to conquer our culture", and Iranian prez Mahmoud Ahmadinejad "sounded ... a lot like Michael Moore" in a letter.


• On Iran: "I say we nuke the bastards (...) In fact, it doesn't have to be Iran, it can be everywhere, anyplace that disagrees with me."


• On New School graduation speaker Jean Rohe, who said that the decision to have the new, more Christofascist John McCain speak at the graduation ceremony was done against the interests of the students: "Shut up! Shut up! Shut Up! I can't take her!"


• On Moussaoui: "In 30 years, I think this guy could become the next 'Tookie' Williams," agreeing with a caller of similar non-mind stating that "the Left" would make a "celebrity" out of Moussaoui.


• His famous hatred for the victims of Hurricane Katrina and the families of 9/11 victims: "And that's all we're hearing about, are the people in New Orleans. Those are the only ones we're seeing on television are the scumbags(.)" "[W]hen I see a 9-11 victim family on TV or whatever, I'm just like, 'Oh, shut up!' I'm just so sick of them because they're always complaining."...


• And, of course, like all vacuous right-wing windbags, he has to take a simple-minded, ham-fisted shot at Cindy Sheehan and her personal tragedy and drive to see justice done: "Cindy Sheehan. That's a pretty big prostitute there, you know what I mean? [...] Pretty hard to beat prostituting your son's death. Don't you think?"

An intrinsic battle between reason and prudence, and emotion and waywardness.

“The worst thing to call somebody is crazy. It's dismissive. 'I don't understand this person so they're crazy.' That's bullshit. These people are not crazy. They are strong people. Maybe the environment is [just] a little sick.”

- D.C.

i had lost myself

but i've realized the magnitude of my actions

born again and begging for repentance

emancipated from hedonism and heathenism

my heart and soul no longer cursed

earnest i do hope

much work must be done unscrupulously

I live vicariously through his deception

maybe we'll cross the threshold; travel light years from this pantheon of melancholy

exogenously or intrinsically flawed, we are all wretching beings

creatures of the bog

catharsis, epiphany, perpetual insolence and indolence

I take no further consequence - we know not what the future holds or what the past teaches

retrospection is for the weak

We are flanked on all sides by the unrelenting enemy. I remember times of frugality and simple pleasure, humility and resilience, vigor and optimism. Alienated were we, not long ago, from all manifestations of vice. We knew no thing as greed, listlessness, jealously or frivolousness.

But those days were finite. We have blackened. Our skin has grown thick, our voices stern and our hearts sour. The policy of hedonism has encapsulated our former selves, and we roam the earth like wretched beings. We kill, steal and lie at the behest of our whims. We embrace materialism as religion and blindly pursue monetary wealth. We have lost touch with our true selves.

As the battle begins, I pray alongside my brethren for the possibility of rebirth and atonement.

My work as an assassin takes me to a small town settled in a country that is distinguishable only by its peculiar weather phenomena. My solicitor is an elderly gentlemen who fears for his life, threatened by lucid fantasies of dark spirits and sickening declarations of violence. Unbeknownst to the bloke, is the reality that every twilight hour of every night, his crimson-eyed tormentor peers into the sleeping man's chambers, eagerly contemplating his demise.

I visit an alienated military post in the country. The toll of war manifests itself in the faces of the young children. I spend lunch with close relations over cold potato soup, and discuss in harsh tones the repercussions of the coup. I am intrigued by the generosity of the people even in their time of frugality. I visit a sullen animal farm on the outskirts of the settlement and find myself grimacing at the bare-boned carcasses of long-ago consumed fowl and cattle. Shaking my head, I walk limply to the barracks. I anxiously contemplate returning to my pampered bungalow, inevitably to forsake all traces of this visit.

We always speak in rushed voices, discussing the war and our lost friends. As dusk begins to creep, incense is lit, and a priest utters a verse of prayer. The entire world seems silent, and I feel myself begin to drift into the infinite vacuum of space.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

--Rudyard Kipling

... I find myself alone, cold and hungry under the steel white moon. I am overcome by ominous sensations of fear and rage as I seek shelter against the omnipresent tempest. The dilapidated corn fields begin to tremble under the weight of my feet, and I suddenly become aware of a sharp tingling near the back of my spine. At the brink of insanity, I forsake all traces of inhibition and confront my personal demon and eternal tormentor. I launch myself at the heathen, pummeling it to the ground, forcing onto it sharp blows and robust strikes with unbelievable zealotry and fervor.
Surely, the beast begins to ebb in stature until there is nothing left except its weary crocodile-skinned boots.



To this day, sleeping is difficult. The boots forebode the return of the demon, as I fear the remains of the demon still reside in it, inevitably to awaken and torment anew.