Monday, March 26, 2007

Rememberance of Past Events and Circumstances

Is it admirable to recollect events in one's life out of context? Or should we cower away from the neglect of chronological accuracy in our metaphorical voyage into the past?

Perhaps it is the altitude, or maybe something more, causing my mind to wander to another time, an earlier time, long foregone and once forgotten. As a faithful orangutan calls out to his besotted consort, so does my memories call out to me. They find their way through the mental jungle of genetic theory and biological possibilities. They rise out of the abyss of my subconscious and take afloat on my vessel of awareness and being.

I recall my childhood. A young Mohinder frolics through the marketplace, enroute to a nearby grouping of fellow youngsters, destined to become involved in the game of football in which they are engaging.

"Chale Jao!" they lambast in unison.

"Please, would you not find it more advantageous to converse in the language of our imperial tyrants? As it is they who are among the ruling class, and perhaps by involving ourselves in their culture they could elevate our status to that higher than a humble peon."

"Mohinder, the English have long gone from here!"

"Yes, but their power and control remains. Are the current leaders not merely puppets of a Caucasian pseudo-regime?"

"Chup Raho!"

Young Mohinder is devastated at their command to cease talking. And though he does not wish to comply, he realizes that there is no other option as he gazes at the maleficence in their optic peepers.

I find myself pondering that particular moment in time. It was a significant event, one that taught me of my upper-class upbringing and made it known to me that I would never find a place among my so-called people.

And then another memory descended upon my cognitive realm...

Student Mohinder sits quietly in his classroom chair awaiting the arrival of the professor. He is pensive, his mind lost in the depths of philisophy. This class, Cognitive Philosophizing 101, is Student Mohinder's favorite. And though one could not gather it from his boring exterior, he is most definitely stimulated and stirred within by the thought of the approaching lecture.

And then she enters. She approaches an adjacent desk and claims it as her own with the dropping of her classroom materials onto it.

"Hello, Mohinder," she purred.

"Mira, what a delightful surprise. Why I had not known you too were enrolled in this class. I look forward to engaging in intellectual conversation with you, as well as our fellow students."

"Oh, Mohinder," she coaxed.

"I feel fortunate, blessed by God himself, to have you here at my side. And I would rather like to take this moment, utilize it, so that I may inquire as to your plans for the upcoming celebration, particularly, whether or not you currently possess a companion, or escort, for the evening. Would such a person exist in your current predicament?"

"No, Mohinder," she testified.

"Then, perhaps, if it is not too much of an inconvenience for you, would you at all mind to do me the great honor of allowing me to be that aforementioned person, which currently is lacking in your life? Would you allow destiny to take its course as it would most assuredly plan to utilize me in a manner that would fulfill that void? Or would you rather crush my hopes into bitter remnants of despair, like a heinous Hyena would crumble Caribou corpses?

"Yes, Mohinder," she announced.

And so Student Mohinder transformed into Happy Student Mohinder. But the happy status was soon removed as he and Mira arrived at the celebration.

"Hey, Mohinder," a young man jabbers.

Still Happy Student Mohinder turns to be made aware of the presence of Nikunj Patel, the archetypal bully and otherwise annoying prick.

"You're such a nerd that even the Pac Man champions think you're a freak!" Nikunj asserts for all to hear.

"Yet is one man's freak not another man's god? Who are any of us to say what is normal and what is not? Would you not be a freak for possessing a matriarch who finds comfort within the arms of numerous suitors from day to day?"

And thus Happy Student Mohinder was knocked unconscious and awoke as Battered Unhappy Student Mohinder. He had missed his first date with Mira, though present physically, his mind was locked away into the depths of the unconscious.

From my current vantage point, I reminisce and ponder my past. With each memory that rises to face me, I find my resolve weakening, and I grow afraid that perhaps my life has had no meaning, and I am merely the subject of ridicule, like the dormant red-nosed sloth of West Africa.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Game Over

Peter has been sobbing profusely for the last hour or so. It was due to his excessive depression that I felt the need for counseling. As we were both currently rendered immobile by the fork-spoon hybrids punctured through our clothing, I realized his psychological evaluation would require myself to perform it.

Is it not destiny's grand plan that I provide psychoanalysis to this emotional crybaby? For, when at the University, and it was required of me to take an elective course, something outside the field of genetics, I was forced into Introduction to Psychology due to the lack of availability of my true calling, Wonders of Bewilderment 101. And so it is because of that, a direct consequence, that I now find myself with the appropriate amount of introductory knowledge which this very situation requires.

And will I stand tall, figuratively, as I'm currently fastened to the ceiling, and face the challenge destiny has brought to my metaphorical doorstep? Or will I cower and run, again figuratively, from the obstacle?

Thinking back to my father's theories, I attempted to discern whether or not Peter would qualify as a human, and thus be capable of being psychoanalyzed as such. Evolved persons are still persons, are they not? As my pachyderm friend would say, "A person is a person, no matter how genetically advanced."

And so I began with the basics.

"Tell me, Peter, how would you estimate your current sense of emotion?"

"I'm sad. Totally depressed. Like always! Life just keeps getting worse, yet it won't end. Why am I tortured like this!"

It is unfortunate I neglected to attend my psychology class enough to be aware of the next step. It seemed Peter was not cured by my attempt.

"Very well. Let us continue this conversation at a later date. In the time preceding that event, I shall attend to the matter of our escape, or rescue as it may need be."

I allowed myself to ignore the man-baby so that I could concentrate on something far more important. No, not Solitaire. I have grown weary of the game. It was time for a new challenge. A much more difficult game. Perhaps one could call it evolution.

I moved on to Free Cell.

The game was progressing nicely, until I made a tragic mistake! It seems I have occupied all my free cells with cards, and now haven't a move to make. It is most assuredly game over.

Could this be destiny telling me something? Have I exhausted every opportunity for survival? Or is there still a free cell waiting for me out there, ready to take my card of misfortune and hold it, so that I may play out the rest of my life? Or is this it? Is this game over for Mohinder? Game over for my father's theories? Or perhaps even game over for Earth itself?

Monday, March 12, 2007

Reaching New Heights in Destiny

Sylar's dupery has finally arrived at its conclusion. I discovered the horrific truth, the bitter verity, of Zane's persona. And yet the confrontation has resulted in quite the near-death experience; a hyperbole that is not.

I find myself looking down on the events as they unfold, wondering to myself if perhaps I have already vaporized into the great nothingness, the eternal void, of the afterlife. Could I continue to affect this world, this reality, as it unfurls before my very eyes? Or am I merely an external observer, a true scientist, one may say, unable to affect that which I observe. For my participation in reality would alter destiny itself, and so it seems I am doomed to watch from above.

Though let it not be said that I did not try to affect change. Upon noticing the arrival of one Peter Petrelli, I called out and gave a succinct warning. "Sylar" I muffled. And yet it was not enough. Perhaps I had chosen the wrong time to speak shortly on matters. Would it have been more advantageous to Peter had I engaged a more lengthy delivery, ripe with abundant verbosity and vibrant vocabulary? Perhaps then, he could have managed an escape.

Unfortunately, he was merely annoyed with my bleeding on his head. Rather than up and flee, like any good nobleman would do, he looked up and lambasted, "Hey, jerk, stop bleeding on my amazing hair!"

Then, with the speed of an uprooted tree in a hurricane, Sylar set forth action resulting in the incapacitation of Peter. As he held the male nurse to the wall, I could only postulate his next move would surely result in Peter's death. Though I was not afraid. It is not in my nature to fear. For I knew that any distraction Peter could cause may allow me to escape. And it has been my dream since arriving on this ceiling to up and flee.

While up I am, flee I cannot. And so in the meantime I will observe, and document that which I see. For above anything, I am a scientist. And as I scientist I must explore the ramifications of my current predicament. I must hypothesize on the outcome. And I of course must wonder, for it is wonder that brings about discovery. And if I am to discover a way down from here, I must wonder.

"NooOOoocoOOoO! Not my hair!" Peter shrieked. I could only watch as Sylar performed this unholy haircut. Speaking quite frankly, I would theorize that he will not have a future in cosmotology.

Then, like a crazed Bermuda jellyfish, Sylar shot sporks at me with his mind. I was most assuredly stuck to the ceiling for good. Some would estimate that to unspork myself would take weeks! Peter did not escape the cruel fate of spork trapping. He too was sporked to the wall.

Sylar uttered some strange words, mentioning a vendetta with Simon Cowell, and vowed to return.

"So, Peter, what would be your supposed duration until we escape or perish be?"

"I'm already dead! Dead like my girlfriend. Dead like my lock of hair lying on the ground staring at me, just like my girlfriend stared at me before she died, her body falling limp like my lock of hair falling on the floor, in the same manner my girlfriend fell on the floor."

"I must say, it is quite a revelation to discover that you had relations with a female. Though it is unfortunate about her demise. Let us hope we do not suffer the same fate."

"Dude, how can you talk about hope at a time like this? We're sporked, man, sporked! This is the end. This is the end for Peter, the annoying little brother. Happy, Nathan? Yeah, I bet you're pleased. This is what you wanted! This is what everybody wanted!"

"Well, I would beg to differ. While I had no standing on whether I would desire your death, 'the end of Peter' as you put it, I do however know that this particular predicament is not what I wanted. As enjoyable as it was at first, being up here can become rather nauseating. I would dare say I may virtually be on course toward vomiting."

"Puke. The truest of God's art! Oh, how I wish I could live your life, rich with chunks of hope and life. Yet I only throw up chunks of despair and death." He then started to sob, like an apologetic offspring of a female canine.

Destiny. It certainly seems to do the oddest things. Is this my destiny? How much more time have I in this world? One could only wonder.

Monday, March 5, 2007

Destined Destruction: Death, Doom and Despair

Is it not our ultimate destiny to obliterate ourselves as a species? Many would say it is. And those who would say otherwise are simpletons.

Technology is undoubtedly en route to annihilation. One must merely look around to see the vile workings of applied science.

Technology will undoubtedly be our undoing! That is if evolution doesn't undo us first. For, it seems, nature is working, progressing, toward the very same result. Life will seek to reset itself and start anew. But will we humans allow nature to run its course and lead to our destruction? Or will we seek our own means, carve out our own path of doom? Perhaps the continued need for this new technology, innovations beyond reason, beyond imagination, indeed beyond God himself, will lead indubitably to the end game, as it were.

I had pondered this particular philosophical concept all day, and certainly was at the penultimate point of conclusion. But my metaphorical locomotive of mentation was derailed by the conversational interference of the local authorities.

"Excuse me, Momad Aljazeera, the sign says no loitering."

"Officer, I can assure you that loitering I was not. The proof can be found in my own recitation of the ponderings which I only recently exposed. The very essences of nature itself brought about the..."

"You best get on out of here," he lambasted. "Less you be lookin' for trouble?"

"Why certainly, officer. I am but a humble Indian Taxi Driver, formerly a professor in my own country, and I wish not to be a nuisance. Please, permit me to find my companion, my fellow traveller on destiny's interestate, so that the two of us, we, can be on our way."

Oddly, Zane was once again missing. I often find my perimeter devoid of Zane and it causes me worry. Perhaps I am growing too attached, though in a completely heterosexual way. I must remember, remind myself, that Zane is merely a test subject, though it seems he too is my only true friend. And what an abundance of fortune it was to have happened upon him.

If there is a way to stop this destined destruction, then the secret is surely within Zane's biology. He could very well be mankind's only hope.