Tag: Writing
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Fighting the Cult of Productivity
In a couple of days, I’ll turn 41 years old. As I prepare to start my 42nd trip around the sun, I’m trying to come up with a time management system that sits well with my philosophy and doesn’t repeat the same mistakes I always make, as I talked about in my last post on…
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Timetables and Me
When I was in highschool, a teacher was lecturing us on time management and asked if any of us made timetables to manage our time. I had just started making timetables and in my excitement I raised my hand without thinking about whether or not I wanted to share my routine with the entire class.…
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I Wrote a Philosophy Book
(And Realized I’m Not Really a Philosopher) I’ve been working on my philosophy for a while now. I’ve approached it in a few different ways. First, I wanted to redefine Nihilism, because that’s kind of the closest philosophical term that I can think of, for my philosophy. Then I came up with my own term…
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Changes
Things are changing again. I’m going through a bit of a negative phase and it’s frustrating because I thought I had gotten over that phase. But change is the only constant and there’s just no way to continue on a path that you don’t believe in anymore. I wish I could just choose a path…
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Smoking with The Devil
“I must inhale some nicotine into my lungs right now or I’ll turn into a homicidal maniac,” I apologized to Mrs. Goldman, the hostess. She dismissed the statement as just another self-effacing joke but if she had bothered to read even one of my books, she would know that the homicidal tendencies ran deep within…
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Morning Sun
I like the sunrays in the morning, peeking out from behind the buildings. It’s soft now, but soon it will turn harsh. Enjoy it while you can.
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Loneliness
The high pitched ringing in the earsof someone who has tinnitus Damp bedsheets hung out to dryon a cloudy day Cold stale rice from the day before A cold steel knife pressed against my neck A dusty chair,sitting against the wall of an unfinished house
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My Velvet Wings
I was once a butterfly,born in reverse.My velvet wingsa burning orange and yellowwith two white eyessurrounded by black circles,on a constant leaden lookoutfor thoughts dull and pragmatic;what the grown-ups called “growing up”. Then I went into a slimy cocoon,slipped right in with a slush,as if someone had sucked me in.But who? Why? How?Maybe my ghost…
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Rudya Aditya 