Tag: society

Life Without Meaning

Jason trudged home alone, head low, hands in his pockets. No one wondered where he was or where he went.

He wished he was slender as the others. Perhaps then he could match their pace as they paced in line. He was the biggest and oldest of fifteen children, and his parents hosted hundreds of relatives, seldom noticing his absence.

It was yet another of those days, and they had found sweet merriment without him. He went into his room and shut the door. He hated his existence. He wished he had been born human; being an ant seemed meaningless.

A Letter to Mom

Mom,

Don’t be alarmed if this letter isn’t as intact as it should be. They warned me that it would go through a standard screening process.

I hope you’re feeling better. Take your medication every day. Set an alarm if you have to, like I used to do for you. It may be a ringing pain in your ears but it’s worth it.

Dad wrote to me saying he’d come see me later this week, so don’t worry about visiting. I know you’re busy with work.

How’s Lisa? She hasn’t replied to my notes, so would you please tell her how sorry I am? I never meant to do what I did. I think about Taylor all the time and every time, guilt gropes at the inside of my heartstrings, and I can’t get rid of it. I’m sorry, mom, that you had to bear such an evil daughter.

I’m thankful that you don’t detest me altogether. That you read my letters at least. I wish I could take it all back — that night on the street. I wish I hadn’t taken Taylor for a midnight jog. He hated jogging, and I knew it.

I tried, mom. I tried understanding. I tried to accept that my little brother was better than I. You loved him more than you loved me, and that’s only natural. I know I should’ve understood. You were only watching out for him, and I had no reason to feel threatened.

But, mom, I did.

I loved him as a brother. I hated him because he came after me. You and dad cared about me before he was born. I remember the tap classes you took me to. I remember the cold coffee we’d get afterwards. Is that place still open?

But then Taylor came, and you stopped my tap classes. Dad told me I should focus on grades. But mom, I loved going to tap classes with you. I didn’t like math as much.

Yes, mom, I know grades matter, and that Taylor needed your attention more than I. And I don’t blame you. My brain knew it, but my heart remained ignorant. I just couldn’t understand why the attention went away from me.

I tried, mom.

I tried to clear my head of the madness that raked it. I loved Taylor. He was my brother, and I enjoyed helping you bathe him and dry him, and later, I liked helping him with his homework. Honest, I did.

But I hated that he came after me. And that night when the cars whizzed by us, I wasn’t thinking about anything. We stood there, laughing at a joke he had said — the one where the Ellipses sisters leave conversations hanging, remember that, mom? — and I punched him on the shoulder for making me laugh so hard.

I’m sorry, mom. I only meant to punch him, not to shove him onto the street. I didn’t notice the cars.

I’m sorry, mom. I know you can’t forgive me. I won’t forgive myself. But please, mom, don’t hate me too much.

Bess,
State Juvenile Prison.

Work Lunch

‘Hey, what do you think of that guy’s shirt?’

Which one? Oh, that tall, dark, almost-bald man wearing a pinstriped shirt that enhances his already-large belly?

“Er — nothing.”

‘Ok. How about that girl’s skirt? I mean who wears long skirts to work anymore, huh?’

Anyone who wants to, I guess. After all, some people find skirts are comfortable to move around in. I don’t, of course, but that doesn’t mean I comment on those who prefer skirts.

“I’ve seen a lot of people wear skirts.”

‘Oh. Is that so? I didn’t know…’ She trails off, looking around for someone else with an interesting attire.

Lunch, for me, was a constant affair of awkward shifting and stuffing my food as fast as I could. The longer I lingered at a table, the more chances I had of meeting someone I’d just ended a meeting with. And lunch hall meetings were different from conference hall meetings; they were smaller talk, more jovial. We’d just talk about women’s skirts and men’s shirts.

And as one topic ends, another blooms uninvited.

‘So listen to this. Last weekend, I was cleaning my cupboard and guess what I found? Oh, don’t just shrug. Take a guess.’

Well, judging from your pungent shirt, I’d say you found a bag of unused mothballs.

“No idea. Tell me,” I’m dying to know, in fact.

She smiles, showcasing her whitened teeth. I should’ve known what was to come.

‘Money! With a note, from the tooth fairy. You know, I love Vic. He does the cutest things. He knows I’ve wanted to get my teeth whitened for a long time. And he knows I’d never make it a priority — what with all the new house we’re buying and all that.’ She waves her hand in an offhand way, like it doesn’t matter.

Ok. So for the last half hour, you’ve built up a conversation just to tell me you’ve whitened your teeth, and you’re buying a house. Brilliant. It’s just my idea of a noon-time interaction.

“Ah. That’s nice.” I smile in return, flashing my average-white teeth. I don’t believe in tooth fairies. “I’m full. Aren’t you?”

Unlikeable Reading

I’m reading “Tribes, We need you to lead us,” by Seth Godin. And I’m impressed with the way he’s written his text. It’s easy to read, full of matter, and so much inspiration.

And yet, there’s no excitement. At least not for me.

I’m surprised I didn’t realise this sooner, but every book I read for pleasure has a unique style and writing sense. And every book I read for knowledge lacks that element in every syllable.

Seth Godin’s book is great. I breezed through page after page without ever having to stop for a moment to appreciate the beatuty of his weaving — because there was none. His book is worth quoting, sure, but only for what he says; not for how he says it.

Then I understood why text books never get the appreciation they deserve. Who’d read a book that’s full of facts void of facets? But every school teacher insists on reading those textbooks, and likewise, every manager insists on reading “how-to-best-do” books.
The former will help get more marks and the latter, more strategies, and therefore, more money.

And yet neither of these make us skip a heartbeat, keeping us in mild excitement throughout the length of the book. These are more like medicines; a necessary evil. They communicate, but they don’t make us appreciate the art of communication. They convince because the name on the cover is already an established authority. No one questions it, no one contradicts it.

A lot of people I know who don’t like reading say so because they’ve never read anything apart from their school textbooks. No wonder they hate reading. If I had to read only titles that read “Ways to leverage your writing potential,” but have zero writing potential in them, I’d hate reading too.

But when reading for pleasure, everyone contradicts the author. Every reader, novice or expert, has an opinion to cast at the story. And that’s why writers adopt the more proven way of persuading readers. They makes us fall in love with what they have to say. Every sentence, every word choice is so deliberate that it sparks a myriad of emotions in us.

This brings me back to textbooks. If knowledge-intensive, preach-oriented books are interesting enough, perhaps more of us would enjoy reading. Perhaps then, we’d be happy to learn from what we read.

What do you think? Have you read instruction pieces with enjoyable narratives?