The peril of pessimism and other morals involving Manny Pacquiao

It's so easy to sulk. Seriously easy. It's so easy to feel shame and wallow in sadness. Seriously easy. It's so easy to give up. Seriously easy. This is the peril of pessimism: it's so easy, when everything else in our lives is so difficult. Compound the peril of pessimism with the false notion that it's easy to get anything we want in life, and...well, we have a problem on our hands.

I'm writing this post tonight partially to prevent my own nervous breakdown before the LSAT, and partially as a reminder that things eventually work themselves out. Because, you see, I too often err on the side of pessimism. But at the same time, when I look at the grand scheme of my life so far, I have no reason to be pessimistic.

I guess I have a variety of mental metaphors I turn to in times of intense frustration. My personal favorites are my mental images of Pacquiao boxing the hell out of someone. This is gonna sound super cheesy, but I like to remind myself that Life, that big, bad boxer, is gonna throw some tough punches. Face it, it's inevitable - we'll all have to take some big hits, some that land straight on the jaw, a couple punches right in the gut, and that rare, occasional hit that will knock us down. It didn't cross your mind, yet there you are, unable to do anything but fall. The crowd gasps in anticipation, and the only sound in the stadium is you hitting the floor. Yet, in all that dizziness, there's a certain something, a certain fighting spirit, if you will, that keeps us in the game. That certain fighting spirit is keeping us going right now, in this moment. You feel the urge to fight back, give it all you got, and shake off your failure.

And then, you get back up. Somehow, you always do. You're back on your unsteady feet, blinking your eyes a couple times, regaining your composure while the referee keeps you separated from your opponent. And the important thing is, it wasn't easy to get back up. In fact, it was incredibly difficult to even conceive of going forward. Yet, the feeling of being back on your feet, despite the wooziness and intense pain, is worth the struggle. The crowd applauds your extraordinary effort, claps and cheers in appreciation, and chants your name. I consider it inevitable, really. Now, time for Round 2...

Ok, so admittedly, Pacquiao wouldn't be K.O.'ed in the first round. But maybe next time, next Round, you'll learn to avoid that punishing left hook, and maybe be a little more nimble on your feet so you can land a couple of your own hits.

On the Train Platform

A short little tidbit of writing I did this evening. Enjoy.

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Tokyo.

On The Train Platform. Friday night 9:55pm.

Indistinguishable palates of black to dark grey fill, flood, and cleanse the valley. Only a rare spark of youthful, stunning pair of high heels seemed to break the curse of the middle-aged salaryman. For a moment, his mind, slightly dazed from beer and sake, remembers the green fields on a Saturday afternoon, the lone tree for miles, and a former love. If only this stupor, though faint and tainted from the wistful after-effects of another evening of ritualistic drinking, could last just a second longer.

Once again, the salaryman blinks to see only a world colored in greys and blacks, hearkening back the obligatory blank state of mind that accompanies the veteran commuting masses. It’s too late, it’s Friday night, and the salaryman is one hour from home.

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On The Train Platform. Friday night 9:56pm.

She deliberately chose “the pair” today. Would people notice? Of course, she reminded herself that morning; Of course, she reminded her self that morning, "the pair" of high heels would bring about “the pain.” No matter, the day was over. But she had to wonder, why was it o.k. for New York women to walk around with running shoes, while she, like all other Tokyo women, had to suffer in heels?

Instinct, if not boredom, called for her phone’s awakening from 2 minute hibernation. Her boss, again, with the only message since two minutes ago. “Good presentation today. Friend from Sony said you will make a great assistant if you work there.” An unwarranted, disappointed sigh escaped from her.

“Assistant,” what an insolent, degrading word, she thought.

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On The Train Platform. Friday night 9:57pm.

Somber spirits are replaced with the sounds of joviality and youth. The muted, business oriented masses herd into a train on one side of the platform; the slightly drunk, chattery twentysomethingyearold masses alight on the other side of the platform. A girl, most probably belonging to the twentysomethingyearolds crowd, walks past a woman with a stunning pair of heels.

But then again, she thought, every girl in Tokyo has a stunning pair of high heels...