Cigarettes, Temples, Golf.
Looking at the sky this morning. At the flying birds with a cigarette in my hand, I realized smoking hasn’t made me any spiritual. Although I smoke searching for that special feeling.
Cigarettes have dug and brought the stale past to life once in a while. They have boosted excitement at times, too. But mostly (if I could percentize, 90%) it has shaken the bowel, and 89% of the time triggered anxiety and sleep.
With that view:
I have dug and dug for gold. Found a few grains. Found copper and silver too. But mostly I have found shit and nausea. The irony is that the more I dig, the process is becoming more about avoiding the smell of shit and vomit. I have almost forgotten the gold.
My real fear is that I have no idea what smoking has done to my body. I have no energy to climb back up. And I am running out of will.
I was born and bred in South Asia — the land of reverence irrespective of the religion followed.
Take the recent temple built in India. Look at the noise and drama that temple has created in what is supposed to be the the age of questioning and skepticism. And it’s not a spiritual temple. It is a political temple.
I am in North America as I write this. The material development and the system they have here is light-years better than what we have in South Asia. And it’s not that South Asians don’t care about material development. South Asia just couldn’t achieve it. It’s similar with people. No matter what they say and who they worship, general people lack depth in South Asia.
What all this means is that, in South Asia, neither the kings nor the gods ever gave a fuck about their devotees.
And yes, they have reverence in North America too. But in return, their kings at least give them wonderful cars, roads, and WWE.
When an African friend asked me if I knew barbershops with barbers of black heritage, I immediately thought he was racially biased. But when he said he preferred taking haircuts with barbers who had similar hair to his so knew how to style his hair properly, his choice made sense to me. He just wanted to look good. It was all about a good haircut. I am the one with a racist head.
Cars and the sport of golf hold the capitalistic essence. If I imagine myself in the future fighting against financial inequality as a socialist activist, I can’t see myself morally able to go to a golf game in my future car after that. I dislike the idea of the activist.
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