Micah is respected for his intellect having been a professional writer for a long time. He’s equally reviled for at times coming across as arrogant, cold, and aloof. He is never known for his warmth, and his persona certainly would not lend itself to today’s touchy-feely era of screen-time. Nonetheless, he is the most prolific writer that portrays all indications of deep confidence and inner-piece.

So far in my adult life, I’ve never managed to grasp the main point of each decade until long after it was over. This is yet another indication of my slowness in grasping the full picture of one’s real persona. The realization has nothing to do with my deep admiration for writers.

10/6/2015 – 9:45pm

I wish I could save my feelings at a certain point in time. I wish I could go back to those emotions and review them, and feel exactly the same. If that was the case, forgiveness would suffer and benevolence would spike. It’d be like time is a non-existent concept in that it could not neutralize or erect past emotions.

This is my strange way of saving my jarring mindset on Tuesday October 6th at 9:45pm.

Tara’s Weeks

Tara is a thirty something years old woman who lives in a city at sea level. She works very hard on Mondays and Tuesdays to solve the problems of Fridays and Saturdays. During the week she relentlessly works out. The pictures of her workout sessions get many ‘like’s from those she meets on weekends. Her body is a temple on weekdays and it becomes an amusement park during weekends. She neurotically follows every event as if there is a party train out there that tends to leave her behind at every stop.

One a Saturday night, Tara texted me and asked for help. I showed up. Only, to find out that the problem was a boring party. I took the ordeal as a complement because that means I can still revive the boredom of a party girl. We hung out for a few hours and towards the end of the night she asked me if I had any advice for her. Right there, I noticed a moment of introspection caused by boredom, which is the very nature of first world problems.

I love neuroticism. It is that fundamental personality trait that never disappoints to entertain. The feelings of anxiety, envy, and phobia are the basis of Shakespearean tales. Neurotics founded the religions, arts, and formed enlightenments that have survived the test of time. The world will never know what it owes to neurotics or how much they had to suffer to give what they have.

On that Saturday, I strayed away from giving any advice. Not that I had any or I’m qualified for it. I actually really like Tara, but as a person who’s gone through that stage of life, I felt it’d be boring to take away the excitement of witnessing someone else’s boredom. The fervor of sharing a few words never left me though. If I had to really share a thought, I’d tell her that we were put on earth for reasons other than fucking. Then again, Tara belongs to that splendid family of neurotics which is the salt of the earth.

Yoga Moms

It’s sheer shock. Me talking about the veracity of an argument from a republican writer, is like Ron Jeremy talking about celibacy. It’s like a kiss – something that serves no evolutionary purpose but it feels good. It simulates a conversation that doesn’t go longer than a hallway “how are you”.

An old Greek’s saying suggests that we suffer our way to wisdom. And I am suffering my way through realizing that David Brooks is incredibly wise about how he frames the role of emotions in our interpenetrated life (his twisted politics aside).

I live in a city that’s famous for its scenery, blithe lifestyle, and liberal mindset. Here, everyone sounds like an accountant. In San Francisco, people are really good at reason, but really bad at talking about emotions. They are really good at talking about technology, skills, safety, and health and really bad at talking about character.

In San Francisco, you can decode people’s entire decision framework in the way they raise their kids. The kids leave school at 3pm with 50-pound backpacks and get picked up by yoga moms who are highly successful career women. These moms have usually taken time off from their high-jobs to make sure their kids go to Stanford. And you can usually tell the yoga moms because they weigh less than their own kids. They’re elegant and slender. They don’t really have thighs, curves, or boobs. They just have one elegant calve on top of another.

What’s missing in this world of high life is that emotions are at the center of our thinking. Science and reason don’t make us super smart. In fact, people with those tools are quite helpless and alone. Emotions are not separate from reasons. Emotions are the foundation of reasons because they tell us what to value.

French enlightenment royally fucked us. They shoved it down our throats that reason is the highest of the faculties. David Hume research proved who we are, however. He proved that reason is often weak, and our sentiments are strong and trustworthy and we should let go of the dehumanizing bias of reason.

In San Francisco, we hunger for success and prestige. The true self however, granted it’s not lost, hungers for transcendence and those moments of human connection. IQ does not measure the greatness of a human being. Greatness is determined by how well we communicate, and how often we take turns in conversations.

Crippled by Procrastination

The publishing zen-masters claim: the mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying place. Isolated, neurotic, dark, crippled by procrastination, and consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing, and soul-crushing judgments. And that’s on a good day.

I write what I feel, and I’m certainly no writer. Yet, I can relate to all those characteristics on a bad day.

People write from and for different places and purposes. The zen-masters suggest one should never write from a blue place. Or, everything will end up coming from that place.

I’ve never given too many fucks about views of someone whose social status includes a word like ‘master’. Sadly, there is some veracity in this view.

Tuesdays With Morrie

This is one of those books that feel like a new read every time you open it. It says so much, so simply. It reads like a series of memories from a washed up guy who welcomes everyone’s judgment.

My favorite paragraph in the book:
The tension of opposites: life is a series of pulls back and forth. You want to do one thing, but you are bound to do something else. Something hurts you, yet you know it shouldn’t. You take certain things for granted, even when you know you should never take anything for granted. A tension of opposites, like a pull on a rubber band. And most of us live somewhere in the middle.” -Mitch Albom


For a long time, Ida believed in the permanency of her happiness. She also believed that she deserved happiness more than others because she’s dazzling and elegant. During discussions about the topic, she talked like a know-it-all Ostrich. For some reason, saying, “you don’t know everything” consistently felt like a sufficient response to all of her arbitrary entitlements.

Recently, there has been a stall in Ida’s infamous views. Unfortunately, the perfection of her happiness seems to have dwindled. Though I appropriately understand her circumstances, I’m unable to be empathetic. The reason has to do with what lies beneath the chronicles of our timeworn discussions.

As an immigrant, I never believed in permanency. Permanency never lasts. Any concept that promises permanency in human experience is doomed to disappoint. Much worse, an orthodox belief in the permanency of delicate concepts is one of the main causes of its failure. The simple problem of any rigid belief is that it imprudently discounts change.

I agree with Ida that marriage is on old tradition, but change is an older one. For many years, the crawling changes were there for Ida to see but she preferred to look away. Ida continued to like her own world, and he changed to like the world.

Ida, you asked me to write an honest post about the topic before we meet. Here I am, fulfilling the promise with a snappy disposition.

Happiness can be found in ordinary moments where we lose ourselves in extraordinary ways. This involves renunciation of the notion of perfectibility of man. Man can be perfect for five minutes in extraordinary moments but we can’t stay perfect.

You must give up the notion of permanent heaven. We can get into heaven, but for five minutes. Then you have to come back to the world again” –- Abraham Maslow

Patience is a Liability

Patience is a liability within the context of business.

A few weeks ago, I resigned from my cushy job to pursue creating something new. I have been working on the idea for the past several months. My untested belief is that I have planned it well with many mitigation points and exit strategies.

Beyond my literary addictions; I’ve been actually working as a full-on technologist for some time. In that realm, there’s a healthy part of anyone who has a little bit of Bill Gates or Steve Jobs in them.

There is no doubt that if you want something so bad, you ought to face a new set of problems. Specifically speaking, it is hard to be commercially viable with passion projects. In contrast, most people have to find a way to balance what the world will pay them to do with what they love to do. Some never compromised. My new endeavor is just that.

The Club of the Unloved

In an ancient tale/play of, Tristan and Yseult, king Mark rules with his head until he falls in love for his enemy’s sister. The story revels in forbidden desires, broken hearts, grand passion and tender truth. Meanwhile, a band plays in the club of the unloved high above the stage as the story unfolds. In this play, there are both loved and unloved characters, who regard the emotional pyrotechnics with awe, envy, and relief. As in life, the voyeurs are in the majority who take comfort for the realization that they also serve as execrators of the tale.

Living alone is one of the least discussed, and sadly, poorly understood forms of living. We worry about friends and family members who haven’t found the right person, even if they insist that they’re happy. We struggle to support elderly parents and grandparents who find themselves living alone, and we are puzzled about what to do if they tell us they prefer to remain alone. In all these situations, living alone is something that each person experiences as the most private of matters.

On rare occasions of public debate, commentators tend to present living-alone as a social-problem, a sign of narcissism, fragmentation of human spirit, and diminished family life. These preconceived notions tend to frame the lifestyle of living-alone as an overly simplified choice between a romanticized version of Revolutionary Road and glamorous enticements of Sex and the City.

In 1950, only 22 percent of American adults were single. Today, more than 50 percent of American adults are single. That means: about 17 million women and 14 million men don’t have a date tonight. Contemporary solo dwellers are primarily women with a ratio of 1.2 women for each man.

The rise of living alone has been a transformation of norms and social experiences. This lifestyle changes the way we understand ourselves. It alters the way we become adults, as well as how we age and the way we die. This religion of self-reliance embodies self-sufficiency at its core. We have embarked on this experiment because we believe it serves a purpose. Living alone helps us pursue sacred dreams, personal control, and more importantly self-realization. These are exactly the traits that we need to reconnect with others –by choice.

Love and marriage are healthy and noble notions. Couples live longer. They have more sex in missionary position. Couples couple up and go to restaurants together. During dinner, they discuss highway routes to work. After dinner they chat up with waitresses and ask about the tea and its ingredients. Waitresses explain that there is water in the tea. It is all a very communal and pleasant form of life. But love and marriage isn’t for everyone. Single individuals are kinder. They volunteer 33% more than couples. They listen more actively and are more attentive to their friends.

Surely, king Mark enjoyed his love for his enemy’s sister more than the time I spent writing about king Mark. Though, in this club of the unloved I play my own music and cheer for the grand notion of love. Some of us choose to be vegetarians, and bacon continues to smell delicious to the rest.

Erbauliche Monaths Unterredungen

According to Wikipedia, the word Magazine has Arabic roots and it means warehouse. Wikipedia also suggests that the earliest example of magazines was Erbauliche Monaths Unterredungen and was launched in 1663 in Germany.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been subscribed to a few magazines. I read books too, but I like magazines more. Today, I was asking myself: what is behind the allure of reading magazines? And I could think of a few reasons:

First, magazines are about short-form contents. People like me, who easily get impatient about direction of a story, favor short-form contents. For instance, the build-up section of an article is usually no longer than a few paragraphs. In comparison, the build-up part of a book can go on up to a few chapters.

Second, magazines home variety of topics in one print –from analysis of human genome to pregnancy of Zooey Deschanel. Variety actualizes entertainment. As such magazines inherently become reading adventures by letting us the pleasure of wandering through writers’ brains.

Third, books resemble a sense of permanence and infrequency. In contrast, magazines are purposed to be periodic and disposable. That’s built in to the business, design, and function of magazines. The periodic nature of reading material provokes a sense of thrill and expectation.

The reasons we read magazines seem to be similar to why we read anything. We read to learn and break free from boredom. In doing that, we have preferences in the form based on our habits and sense of sufficiency.