A nihilist is a man who judges of the world as it is that it ought not to be, and of the world as it ought to be that it does not exist. According to this view, our existence (action, suffering, willing, feeling) has no meaning: the pathos of 'in vain' is the nihilists' pathos—at the same time, as pathos, an inconsistency on the part of the nihilists.

— Friedrich Nietzsche

"Epictetus does not recommend cold and indifferent detachment to other people. He argues that when something serious happens the only thing in an individual's power is his or her attitude towards it. A person can either accept the situation or resent it. Epictetus insists that what frightens or dismays the individual is not external events themselves but his or her attitude and the way events are thought about. It is not things that disturb us but the way their significance is interpreted. This amounts to a call for the individual to stop scaring him or herself with impetuous notion or reactive impressions with the way things are."

Aurelius 

The soul of man does violence to itself, first of all, when it becomes an abscess and, as it were, a tumour on the universe, so far as it can. For to be vexed at anything which happens is a separation of ourselves from nature, in some part of which the natures of all other things are contained. In the next place, the soul does violence to itself when it turns away from any man, or even moves towards him with the intention of injuring, such as are the souls of those who are angry. In the third place, the soul does violence to itself when it is overpowered by pleasure or by pain. Fourthly, when it plays a part, and does or says anything insincerely and untruly. Fifthly, when it allows any act of its own and any movement to be without an aim, and does anything thoughtlessly and without considering what it is, it being right that even the smallest things be done with reference to an end; and the end of rational animals is to follow the reason and the law of the most ancient city and polity.

Of human life the time is a point, and the substance is in a flux, and the perception dull, and the composition of the whole body subject to putrefaction, and the soul a whirl, and fortune hard to divine, and fame a thing devoid of judgement. And, to say all in a word, everything which belongs to the body is a stream, and what belongs to the soul is a dream and vapour, and life is a warfare and a stranger's sojourn, and after-fame is oblivion. What then is that which is able to conduct a man? One thing and only one, philosophy. But this consists in keeping the daemon within a man free from violence and unharmed, superior to pains and pleasures, doing nothing without purpose, nor yet falsely and with hypocrisy, not feeling the need of another man's doing or not doing anything; and besides, accepting all that happens, and all that is allotted, as coming from thence, wherever it is, from whence he himself came; and, finally, waiting for death with a cheerful mind, as being nothing else than a dissolution of the elements of which every living being is compounded. But if there is no harm to the elements themselves in each continually changing into another, why should a man have any apprehension about the change and dissolution of all the elements? For it is according to nature, and nothing is evil which is according to nature.

Last year, at Indochine i think … I miss you!

Isn't it weird how everyone's lives seem to be in flux. I don't remember it being this uprooty when we were in school – I mean, the biggest thing Kini and I had to worry about was planning our escape to A&W (yes, we were very cool) in a manner that none of the teachers would notice. Of course when Kini, Ali, Mardi AND me were all "sick" during Civics and Moral Education (no, I don't consider communism immoral, I don't care how MANY CME exams I failed – you can't apply a moral filter to a theoretical ideology), they got a little suspicious. It's so funny, Kini is married now, Isha is in London, Aurelie is in a stable relationship (which is pretty much the unicorn/mermaid/sane US presidency of our generation), Neha is a banker, I am – well, I'm still me. But you know what I mean – everything seems so up in the air sometimes, I wonder when all of us will be at the same table at some shady club (where Neha, Isha and Kal will have to have more than ONE drink to claim inebriation) telling random stories about one another (remember when Neha did that lion dance infront of Paragon, remember what Isha said about that girl in the skirt, remember how Kal called me a tramp when I was 12 – you guys have NOTHING on me). Its so strange, I mean – we will all be 30 before we blink, I wonder how much would have changed. Audrey will still be four and a half years older than me. I'll still be writing poetry. Karan will still be Karan. And I'm sure Isha and Neha will be power-suit women, well – Neha will. Ish may go down my hippy love and peace and family road. Aurelie will be married – living in London. How many homes will we have? Anyways, it all just seems so unpredictable, no?

In complete deference to Mathur's lack of any sort of musicality whatsoever, I'd like to point out the fact that selective deafness is not only an attributable deficiency, it's also highly convenient. Also, in the event that she one days manages to evict an array of notes that form some/any sort of "tunable rambling", I hope one of us has a recording device present. We've already filmed the lion dance. In front of Paragon. After 4 glasses of wine. Its inspiring that someone so inebriated managed to move so fluidly. So, so fluidly. Like a belligerent, albeit talented, lion. It's actually quite a blessing that she can't sing – can you imagine what that would have been like. The Wizard of Oz, relocated to Beijing, on speed. Anyways, my point was this – I was thinking of that day (well, the many days) we would lie in Ish's bed and watch Strictly Ballroom. The WORST Australian accents ever. I think I was only conscious through the entire thing once, Neha – maybe 1/2. Not even. But there was this song – remember? We'd always argue about the lyrics? Well, I was right. I think. One of us was right. So apparently it goes -    

You won’t admit you love me. And so how am I ever to know? You only tell me Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. A million times I ask you, And then I ask you over again. You only answer Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. If you can’t make your mind up, We’ll never get started. And I don’t wanna wind up Being parted, broken-hearted. So if you really love me, Say yes. But if you don’t, dear, confess. And please don’t tell me Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. If you can’t make your mind up, We’ll never get started. And I don’t wanna wind up Being parted, broken-hearted. So if you really love me, Say yes. But if you don’t, dear, confess. And please don’t tell me Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

I always marveled at the way you wore your skin. Like you were completely unaware of the innumerable fallacies of your youth or the edges of your contours that the rain continually frayed. You carried yourself in a paper bag, no plastic – nothing durable. There was an acceptance of your eventuality that rode through the street, two strides before you, clearing your path with the parity of royalty. There was a summer in your hair, that glowed with decadence, amassing the casual grace I came to associate with you. A blistering youth, a dizzying ascendancy to a mid-way, where nothing really mattered – beyond the acrid sweat and burning justifications of a river of innuendo, lined with dreams. I would hold your hand so tightly in mine, that you found it imperative to gently tug away from my necessity. How is it that you were always frozen in the pre-ordained lines of your perfection. I was never close enough to feel the uneven pulse in your throat, to smell the dereliction of passion on your cloudy breath – I was in your hands, in your grasp. Never in your smiles. I tried to be neatly folded, hoping you would one day gather me in your immense arms and draw me to your heaving chest. I would lie still, so still that I would forget to breathe – and watch as you pulled pearl after pearl out of your hair. I always wondered how you convinced them to leave. I lay blue, on the floor, and you would pass me with the flippant knowledge of the dying. Toss me a word, a phrase. Never an invitation. I have memorized every flick of your wrist as you pulled warmth from the coldest lie, the layers of your coat as they floated over the snow. I know every gravelly intonation of your voice, pregnant with smoke, the sleep in your bones, the silence in your shoes. I sit here now, watching the sky fall from an emptying heaven, and wonder whether the water is falling into my cup or somewhere far, far beyond me. I can sense you in the dilapidated world, sense your vagrancy in the moistness of the concrete, the buoyancy of the grass. I have looked for you in everything. I guess I will have to see if my coffee tastes like rain.