The Miser

When a person walks what is in one sense the hard road of the tragic hero, there are many who give him advice, but he who walks the narrow road of faith has no one to advise him – no one understands him.
– Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling

I don’t expect people to care.

In fact, I know “people” do not, and to that same extent I also care not of their impression. I don’t usually have much to say since I don’t communicate with linguistics nor verbal intellectualism all that well. Nor am I an impressionist, nor artist, nor a writer.

I’m a miser.

What does this mean? It is not that I remain dismissive enough to be a nihilist, nor an ascetic. There is no world in extremities, yet there is also no world in complete neutrality. I’ve decided to remain a confused person on my own, outside of anyone else’s accord.

Whether I take on as a pupil of hygeia or a minion to the greater technological “god”, so to speak, is really of no concern to anyone. Not even myself. The fact that I can move, work and appease what is sweet to my tongue is enough to know what it means to be privileged.

Tea does not judge itself, people judge the tea.
Fearless (2006).

I feel the extent of veracity changes like the directionality of wind, particularly what I want to believe. Many times I want to believe. Truly, I do try. There are too many instances, however, where issues occlude the very essence of what it means to be a believer. Of anything biblical or paganistic, or the great misunderstood or the Nirvana, there is a great deal of incorrect correlation and taint. I don’t feel obliged to follow such practices.

So whether or not I’m a miser should be of no concern to you, nor who I am. What you see, however, is not quite what you get.