Jazz Will Heal The Wounds.

Little, sad girl sat in front of her computer. She started writing a post because she felt lost in the game. Everything in her life was great one could say. She could manage any task, any matter which needed to be done, even the most mundane or the most challenging or exhausting ones. In her point of view when there was a problem, it was always nipped in the bud before it even thought of enlarging. Small difficulties are easier to deal with, she firmly believed. Also, her mind could never grasp when somebody a distant or close relative faced piling up problems and did nothing to amend the situation. Once, after an encounter with an old acquaintance, when she came back from the city center, a thought struck her mind that girls have it easier in that their lives are moulded in a different manner than guys'. To a certain age, females are being maintained in a somewhat hazy but comfortable stance that there is no thing or matter unsolvable or unamendable [and that love can conquer everything, but that's the bullshit of the last century]. Not to mention the fact that, as she presented it to herself, it was definitely a female characteristic that they tended not to let problems pile up. It seemed that it was [actually, is] the domain of the male kind, or at least a significant number thereof, who did not care much about this.Girls, it seemed, were brought up in the atmosphere of all things nice. These girls then have grown up as young sexy bitches who know who they are, what they want and who they want. They had the looks, sky-high stilettos were nothing new to them, their rooms resembled those of a designer interior space. Although this is not to say that their lives were perfect, they had everything as it should be. Apparently, however, it was not the should-way which was the right way to go with. Sadly did the sad girl sat in her room in front of her computer. She felt lost. She thought, she only knew the rules of beautying up her own surroundings - a very individualistic approach. No idea did she have about how to play the game of outsideness, of how to help other people have pretty lives, how to try implement a grain of her spick-and-span order techniques. If only she could understand the ways of others, she would be able to work at the grassroots level to improve the surface levels, she supposed. On top of that one could add that she always wanted, and what was also her priority was to aspire to be a good person. Alas, judging on the people she has had the occasion to come across, not everybody was like that. She did not know who to turn to. The conclusion is that perhaps she took too much on her shoulders. Perhaps she was too ambitious. Perhaps she was of the kind who wants to please everyone. Perhaps, from all of her criticism she lacked comprehension of some surface in order to understand the above happening. Perhaps she did not want to. Perhaps she did not want to believe that this is what real life really is like. 

hymen[eal].

The superiority of not being invited tot he wedding reception over the opposite. What is the best way to attend a wedding, nevertheless, but retaining the image in accordance with one's wishes? Yes, the solution is go to the church but refrain from wasting one's time on some crappy wed feast. Who cares anyway. Spend a minute or two on the thing. Chatter a bit with selected, more handsome cousins, brag a bit, ask them about even less, leave them something to ponder over in the remaining long hours of the wedding finale and dis-a-ppear...! Puff, I'm gone! When I was in the church, my thoughts revolved around such topics as I wonder how long will they withstand the test of time or Were I a lawyer I would rub my hands with satisfaction waiting for the inevitable divorce to come. It is not, mind you, that I wish, her or him or them bad. Nothing of that matter or sort thereof. My friend whom I attended the ceremony with gave me an astounding stare upon hearing the above mentioned matters and asked why on earth do I forecast such black scenarios for my, more distant but still, family. I retorted that this here, the moment referred to then as the now, and now as then already, is, the already mentioned black scenario in which a beautiful woman lets herself be captured by the ruthless mundanity [oh, I haven't used that word for quite a long] of a wifey's life. God forbid [me]. God save [me] from such dramatic turn of events. A-ny-way, thoughte I. As presumed, upon a closer and slightly longer observation, the event was nothing short of a freaky fash show, in that, everyone was looking upon each other, evaluating how many kilos the neighbouring person put on weight. No thanks. Not doing such a nuptial thing. Not good at pretending.
Nevertheless, I came to a conclusion that the most profound change a man [ref. to general] can execute in him/herself is to get enslaved or, for that purpose, get pregnant. These, in my view are the greatest alternations, in that they are most life-changing and not awesome or satisfaction bearing, however. These modifications [life-mods] you write yourself in a software called life-the-death-ending-story; FAQ best in the world, abounding in old people's knowledge and wisdom. These changes externalize oneself and by that I mean that the locus of attention shifts from an entity's inside to the outside on another person. I, for that matter, am still too self-centered, not to say ego-centric, let alone too self-confident. And the rain has cometh down on se earthe.

Nothing More Than Doxa.

I think the time has come. 10pm-ish. Let the SoC start. As mentioned earlier, I do not know what I want. To be more precise, I do not know what I want you to know about me, do not know what I want to reveal about me to you. The main aim was to keep every me-related matter hidden [from you]. Then, there are the times, perhaps it is because it's still too early, when I wish to share a thing, a picture, an information, a short movie, an inference, an observation with... But then again, there is the thought that I am running the risk of misconception and am about to be ill-interpreted, worse still, [the former not playing any sort of danger or trepidation] that I am getting involved with a psycho-person, so to name it. You could as well call it by the proverbial "being caught between a rock and a hard place". In this case, however, it's more intangible in that "everything that happens, happens in your mind" [provided, one may postulate such essence]. 

There were many titles to this post. They amounted to the number of thought I have had in the meantime and considered them for verbalization. 

Why do we rely on other people's knowledge, if we are the ones privileged enough to know what its structure is and what is the underlying know-how thereof? Namely, that the so-called "science" [quotes intended] is nothing short of doxemic kind of information [if it deserves this name] which has nothing to do with the episteme. The latter is merely a figment of our imagination [whether individual or collective remains to be seen], a conventionally called abstraction and not something what us, humans, are ever, will ever be able to attain! An expert in a filed, say, the gasmen, comes to your house to inspect an element of the external world which he specializes in, that is, the gasometer. He sees this segment of [so-called] reality in a different manner. He sees the gasometer together with all the gas pipes, I could argue, more clearly and distinctly from the rest of the surrounding objects present in the picture. I know that he sees it this way, but this knowledge [wtf, really] is useless since he does not know that I can conceive of him having such a perception of the reality [yes, 3rd degree of intentionality, indeed]. Even worse is the fact that it is me who is aware of the fact how his "knowledge" concerning gas related matters has been moulded - that it has been acquired in a more or less Popperanesque manner, with better or worse [God allow, empirical] experiments carried out to falsify some hazy formulated hypotheses and then, the unfalisified rest scored the proud label of "science", was institutionalized in a form of a textbook subsequently delivered orally, most probab, to the gas whiz I am currently, presently beholding and inquiring information from. Shit, shit, shit, bull larger than ever shit. Give me a module, a divine molecule so that I can amass all the doxa in my head.