Economics: Thieves

When you steal, you devote time (a resource) to taking away something from someone in a community, which could be better spent on more productive actions.

So when you kill a thief, you eliminate a waste of resources which is detrimental to society (time spent by the thief stealing as well as food and drink needed to sustain the thief's life).

Seems it is not wrong to kill thieves and having 'thief hunters' In society would actually be beneficial from an economic viewpoint. Therefore more people should kill more thieves?

Hmm... How strange.

(if any economists out there read this, I'd appreciate your thoughts on this matter)

Abstract

                A recurring dream…  A world of wonder, where nature blossoms in full splendor; perhaps a creation of my mind, another world where I may exist on my own. Skies forever a serene blue, with the cirrus clouds sweeping across the sky like feathers drifting in the wind; the soft green grass billowing in the breeze, mountains in the distance; the world where I saw your silhouette, eternally beyond my feeble reach.

                Why did the world vanish when you appeared? Was your beauty so overwhelming that all other beauty had been eclipsed by comparison, or two opposites whose existences conflicted? I need not ever know; I only wonder why I ever saw your stately figure, shadowed by the fog of ignorance, identity concealed. It evoked a question that would consume me if thought of for too long: Who are you?

                And then you walked into the distance, beckoning to me with hand gestures so subtle, but I could not follow, for this heart here remains rooted to a flaming ice. The source of the emotional cryogen? I no longer remember, for the memory is too frozen, perhaps already shattered.

                Those who speak of hope, they know not that ‘one day’ means nothing. ‘One day’ will never bring solace to anyone, ‘one day’ never saved a soul, ‘one day’ only saw the dream, ‘one day’ will betray itself. This is the truth, as much as anyone, even I, wanted to deny it; I stopped fighting the laws written for the world. One could say that I learnt the meaning of insanity from the experiences, trying the same thing and expecting different results.

                 What if I could escape, just temporarily, to my alternate reality, unscathed by time. A world without the rush of events, melancholy, lack of uniqueness, apathy and ignorance, stigma and hate, decadence and suffering.

                Maybe I can go there with you, a place where we can rest our heads.

The Great Chef

No day is a normal day for me, who labors daily over my forge. My materials taking many forms, my apparatus and tools giving birth to the aroma of food. I work for enjoyment, of self and consumer alike. There is no greater satisfaction and gratification greater than seeing one's creations appreciated and honored.

Look there across the street, that man with his stove, making pancakes for the people. A noble profession indeed, to provide. But one may delve deeper into the culinary craft, and see that he may further improve his pancakes by adding maple syrup, corn, honey, the sort. And yet, he has not done so; this be a hindrance to the progress of humanity towards mastery of the culinary world.

The pieces of meat, vegetables, dough, I rend are not my enemies, they are my friends. I slice them, I fry, bake, steam, broil, boil, braise, and perform many other procedures, so that they may go forth from my transforming forge and do service and pleasure to the world.

Why do I harm them?

Is it not the friend who assails you with bitter truth and tells you to change, to go forth, that you value the most in the end? Or is it the friend who lies to you and lets you rot in your raw state?!


I do not understand the street vendors who do not put their soul into their cooking.

I do not understand the hawkers, too many overzealous with seasoning and salt.

I do not understand the home bakers, who abuse sugar.

I despise those who look down upon my art; who claim to understand my science and yet do not really know.

I am a chef, all I do is create; the sight, the smell, the taste.

20th February 2011

Seasons - Winter

A forest of barren trees in winter, shed their leaves,

Abandoned them for the sake of not letting itself suffer.

Memories, we forget and leave behind, suppressed,

In order to keep looking towards the horizon of the unknown sanctuary we all long for.

As the flow of life resumes, the leaves on the ground,

They wither and die, return to the earth.

To prepare the trees for spring,

When everything begins again.

As we all leave behind traces,

Shadows of ourselves and others,

They dance between the trees;

Gone but never really forgotten.

There was once a person standing there,

Where these eternal footprints lead;

Beyond the veil of branches,

Always singing her song.

As I stare out into the distance,

I glance upon the shadow,

Of your hair, your hand, your smile.

And I chase after you.

The things I leave behind,

Nothing but my tracks in the snow.

Time shall pass and erase them,

But forever my imprints will remain,

In the plants which sprout from my footsteps.

Signed,

The evening at eight,

The day of Saturn

The 15th of January in the 2011th year.

Wish

If you asked me when I stopped believing in fairy tales, I would say, a very very long time ago, when I was still a kid. No, perhaps I never believed in them. Mischievous pixies, petite wish-granting fairies, evil goblins, man-eating trolls and princesses with a heart of gold; it was all too unbelievable, a dead giveaway from the very beginning! FAKE! UNREAL!

But if you asked me when I stopped believing in supernatural things; time travel, supernatural powers, creatures of the night, telepathy, myths...I would have to admit: I never did. Perhaps I thought life was boring without these things in it, but one could also say that everyday phenomena is already quite magical, miraculous even. Yes, I am just a little kid wishing for the impossible, yet my common sense tells me that these things are not real and that I shouldn't hope for their existence, and yet I do.

So, sometimes I come across the question, what is the point of fantasy? Common answers: happiness, satisfaction, longing for a different world, curiosity.

Bullshit.

Why do we know that it is improbable that a random person will just pop out of nowhere and say: "Hi, I'm from the future.", but yet we sometimes wish it were true? Isn't that quite naive; bordering on idiotic even? That makes us quite dumb a race does it not? Or perhaps it is only the children who dream so? The notion makes sense at first, but, neh; why aren't the ones who are (or at least claim to be) grown-up happy either?

Me? I just want a more interesting life, and for people to appreciate the things they have more, which is why I constantly wish for a world where humanity has to unite against an unknown evil threatening our lives. Childish, naive, decadent, stupid; I know.

Sometimes I wish for myself to be able to sleep for ages; decades, centuries, millennia, aeons; time passing by me, hoping to see how the world changes, to steer the world in the direction of change. But then I also know that I'll find traces of memories strewn across the world of the world past, and I'd long for the past, and feel melancholic, and lonely...

Spiraling Melody Of Light

Not much time really passes when you're lying awake at night, the ceiling fan's blades, slightly rusted at the edges, rotate seemingly in slow motion. You can't really help but think "whoong, whoong, whoong" as the blades turn, and turn, and turn.

Laying there thinking, about the troubles you're facing, thing you worry about, someone you care for, what the future holds, who you are, are you just another speck in this vast world? It makes no sense sometimes. They told us life was supposed to be great, but yet here we are doing things that mean nothing, things that mean nothing that people have placed too much emphasis and too much faith into; and yet here we are, not even sure of what we're fighting for.

I wonder sometimes, maybe we cling on to our devices, phones, mp3 players, iPods and the sorts, because we want to know we're not alone. Maybe it's a subconscious reaffirmation, just talking to or texting that somebody over the phone, forgetting everything in drowning rock music or listening to that melancholy invoking instrumental; we are not alone.

We all wish for more to this life we're having, who really wants to spend the rest of their life labouring and worrying away. The wishful thinking is sometimes dealt with, suppressed, and yet again it will rise inevitably to the surface of our minds like cork in water. The future, what does it hold, will I be alone, what will I be doing, where will everyone else I know be in the future, who will remain my friends through storm and calm; is it all fated? I don't know, but someone once told me that life is not worth worrying away.

People like security, but that's just a nice way of saying people are boring. Badminton club, basketball club, football club; what happened to archery, fencing, dodgeball and whatnot? Language clubs, nature society, noble endeavours indeed, but really, if you're going to be like everyone else, why live? Such are the thoughts that leave one a little depressed, but it can't be helped....

Right?

Go to sleep, hug your pillow and make it warm; dream of a possible future, another reality. See the spiraling light that enters your mind and shelters your soul; hear the silver melody that rings clearly yet softly, and pray that it is eternal.

Live.

Creation

It is in 17th century Germany on a nameless street, just another day begins as the rising sun paints the entire street like a sepia photograph. Inside one of the houses with identical facades, a man in his late 20's performs his craft. Holed up in his workshop upstairs labouring away at his creation, the golden sun rays shine through the windows of his workshop; there is little sign on the man's face to indicate that he had been up all night at his work. On his immaculate countenance an elegant smile is etched, a mirror of the enjoyment, fulfillment and pride he takes in his work. Perhaps he does not call it work at all.

The dollmaker pours over his intricate equipment, and yet he seems perfectly poised and at home with his surroundings, his nimble fingers efficient and never hesitating. It is hard not to be inspired by wonder watching a craftsman at work, even more so for the nameless dollmaker; it is clear that money is not his motive. What makes him tinker over all that material and turn scraps into something beautiful?

Perhaps there is a love of his who inspires him, perhaps a child; perhaps something lost to him, perhaps a longing? There he stays in his little bubble of timelessness immersed in the passion for his work. So noble and passionate his work that time itself could not bear to take him away in her tide. And all that is of him is stowed away in a tiny fragment of reality, floating around in the space of existence. Forever immortalized.

The dolls born of his hands that lay scattered around his workshop seem almost lifelike. With eyes glowing with emotion and faces lit with compassion that it takes conscious thought to remind oneself that they are just dolls; and yet it just seems that they would just suddenly get up and smile at you. Such love put into his handicraft, like a great desire for a child he never could have.

And as the creator walks past a doll of a girl child, it reaches out to him haphazardly, and whispers:

'Fa...ther...'

The scene fades and diminishes into the fog of thought, as if just a dream.

Inspired by Mitsumune Shinkichi's "Creation", Rozen Maiden: Träumend.