Temptation

Down the

twisting, moth-bitten path I trod

A twinkle in my eye

and a prance

in my stride.

Wherefore a silver, iron-clad portal stood in my midst,

Cool spots

of chipped rust peeking through,

I stepped forward with but a slight of foot.

And in my wake was a bronze-crusted chain-link barrier

Inseminating the air with the diffusing smells of burnt wood

Which I trip-trapped through with trepidation

At once a little flower girl

Caressed with curls and polka-dots

Stepped forward

to tug my hand from the road

With little affliction

did I let her

tear

me

away.

Down the straight

marble-glossed trail

I was dragged

to a sparkling manor

with walls aglow.

I watched obliviously

as the girl with a mimicking grin
vanished into the blackness.

The walls began

collapsing inwards

as I cried loud to no avail

Plunged into an inviting dark abyss

I suffered

for

my

temptation.

New-Age Rev(elation)olution

I used to mock people who had iPods permanently super-glued to their bodies. I used to say “Do you ever not listen to music?”, and I would proceed to chuckle in a patronizing fashion, thinking myself above such things.
Well, I was wrong.
I had my serendipitous revelation on a gloomy weekday morning, commuting to school earlier than usual. Having whirl-winded out of the house like the typical hurried morning, I had arrived at my bus stop with an armful of things I had grabbed on my way out of the house. Keys in one pocket, coffee mug in one hand, backpack dangling off the right shoulder (and giving me a cramp already), and an Eggo for eating on the go.
It seemed a good tactic that worked well—rush out of the house carrying everything so as to not forget to bring anything. Apparently, I wasn’t always spot-on with gathering all my belongings, because when I finally settled myself uncomfortably between two intruding-onto-my-seat fellow commuters, I’d realized my iPod was not in my usual pocket.
Flummoxed, I started patting down the rest of my backpack with the precision of a maximum-security prison guard, until I forced myself to accept the fact that I would be going music-less all day. I let it sink in for a few moments, as I tried to focus on something other than the fact that the lady next to me was speaking unceremoniously loudly on her cell phone. If I had my music, I wouldn’t have to hear her yammering, I had thought to myself with bitterness.
I then sighed loudly, stoically resisting the urge to cry out in frustration, and trying to find interest in the bus full of people standing amongst me instead. One woman was scribbling erratically on a piece of paper with ridiculous concentration; one man was reading the Metro in an obscure corner; a few others seemed lost in their own heads as they stared straight forward at the multi-faceted, shimmering, hypnotic blacks of the bus seat in front of them. I felt bored already. What would I do during my work periods during class? What would I fiddle around with on my down time? What would I let tranquilize me as I headed back home on the bus after a terribly long day of high school?
Ten minutes into my bus trip, I shifted in my seat trying to find a better way to nestle between two people without actually touching them—I have a thing about no physical contact between pure strangers—when I felt a lump in my left pocket grind into my thigh. I reached down to inspect the obtrusive object, and as my fingers groped around and then felt the familiar blunt, rectangular figure of my iPod, I hurrahed with joy inside.
So I didn’t forget it after all!
I felt my inner triumphant self pumping its fist in the air, obviously fervent that my ears would no longer be an empty hole with nothing to be filled with.
All at once, as I let my euphoria slowly fade away, I felt dismay filling its place. Why had I been so upset that I would be going one school day, or rather eight hours, without a little music? Was I really so dependent on a little contraption that was ultimately not crucial for my survival?
Yes, I thought to myself. Yes, I was extremely dependent upon it. If someone asked me to bring one thing with me to go anywhere, I would be grabbing my iPod—no doubt about it. Maybe even if our destination was something like a deserted island. At least I would be entertained.
Then, I recalled my friends and their emotional attachments to their cell phones. Well I, unlike them, had chosen my good old mp3 player as my permanent lover instead. It was not really that different—most of us have an innate instinct to rely on some form of technology as our personal safety nets. Whether some people need to be able to have constant communication with others, or whether some need something to erase the reality of it all, we are all looking for the same thing. And we are turning to our fancy state-of-the-art toys to do so—not the same things our parents would have had.
So, as I look down at my beautiful companion sometimes, I feel nothing but a wave of love and adoration—oh, you have pulled me through so much!—and can’t resist sending a prayer to the big guy for giving those marvellous Apple people great, big brains.

"A Touch of Humour" - It's Good For Us... Isn't it?

I had the good fortune this past weekend in coming upon this, ah -- for lack of a better word -- pastime of a friend of mine's. Interestingly enough, it originated in India, and is known there as “hookah”. In other Middle Eastern countries, it may also be known as “shisha” or “water pipe smoking.” Now, the very mention of its roots in the Middle East should bring about the raising of eyebrows and skeptical of frowns. However, I assure you in this case, no mass nuclear weaponry is involved. So, after coming across pictures posted on the site becoming increasingly known as a revealer of not-so-law-abiding youth (aka Facebook), I immediately went to question my friend about her smoke-puffing faces. "It's totally safe," she assured me, as she giggled at my incredulity. I continued drilling her for more information, for despite my belief that any kind of smoking is a one-way ticket to Hades, I was intrigued. Why hadn't I heard of this non-nicotine, non-tobacco sort of drug before? Sure enough, after wikipedia-ing "shisha", I found out that it indeed did still contain tobacco, and consequently tar. Of course, anything on wikipedia must be true, so I confronted my friend again at this point. "Okay, maybe a LITTLE tobacco," she relented. I joined in her guffawing to mask my 'uncomfortableness', but I couldn't help feeling guilty for picturing her lungs coated in black tar already. What is so wrong with this world that teenagers are constantly on the merciless, unyielding search for a way to escape reality? To quell the monotony of one-hour-long classes? To lessen the heap of homework piled up to their X-Box? It seems even for the more thrill-seeking of young adolescents, marijuana and alcohol are too drab and tiresome in filling the empty void. It seems we have fallen behind even the most Neanderthal of human behaviour, if we have to lie to ourselves, repeating in a dogged chant, "It's perfectly safe! I'm not addicted! It's not going to hurt me!" Is it what we truly believe, or is it just the safety net we can fall into should we ever be accused of doing something "wrong"? Maybe it’s actually advancement; maybe it's really regression. It depends on your point of view: amazing that we’ve moved down a ladder rung for the amount of harmful substances we deposit into our body, or depressing that we still think inhaling tar is pretty cool, and that we like to pretend it’s not as bad?