Impunity is a word that has been bouncing around today slightly more than it did the last few years. The word, the root of which is found in Latin in the form of punire which ‘means to punish’, has little to do with the other homophonic word, ‘impugn’ which means to contest the validity of something. Living with a mindset of impunity is dangerous as it removes responsibility from the actor regarding their actions, and it is often used to define the violence committed by one group of persons toward another with little or no consequences, but can apply to something as simple as a driver who begins a counter-flow lane or a third lane in a heavily congested, two-lane street. A society that has come to believe that they can do whatever they want, whenever they want, just because they want it, and get away with it because no one will dare to impede their pseudo-freedoms lives with a culture of impunity.
Throughout our lives, every now and again, life will manage to figure out a magnificent way of punching us in the stomach, sending us reeling into a vicious cycle of self-pity and mourning. And we call that ‘failure’. Failure is not something that stems from the lack of success in our endeavours, or from a lack of bravado. Failure comes when our goals do not meet reality.
The world has multiple definitions of failure; when your grades do not meet the cut, when you do not meet your quota, when you do not meet your obligations for one reason or another, when you lose someone you love, when friendships fall apart. Anything that does not go according to plan can be written off as a failure.
At this point in time, there are a group of young people who are between the ages of 14 to 33. One thing characterizes this group of people, they are all young and they are all in pursuit of comfort and success. But they also have one thing in common: they all believe themselves to be the hero of the story of their own lives.
A particular girl from this group of people was named Anna, and she seemed to be comfortable and enjoyed life and its small pleasures. However, deep down inside, Anna was unhappy. She was disappointed with her life, why?
I find it rather odd that people still make a big fuss over anything in this country, and they make a rather large mess of things. The current fad is that recent pork barrel scam, and give it a few weeks, everyone will have moved on to a new topic, thanks to the wonderful efforts of the social engineers in the media. If the news is to be believed, they have successfully blocked part of ESDA near the shrine to hold some sort of vigil or rally against the whole thing. Rather unchristian of them to cause traffic, but they have the right of things.
The past week has been pretty busy and I apologise for the delayed post.
A year is divided into three hundred sixty-five days, and each day is divided into twenty-four hours, and every hour into sixty minutes. We live in a world that goes by too fast, too quickly. An average person would live their life; get to know a handful of people if any, and at the appointed time, will die. And after a few years, no one will remember them. Is that all our life is going to be, a small and insignificant point in the grand scheme of eternity?
People often wonder what their lives are going to amount to. Think about this: a virtuoso spends over fourteen thousand and six hundred hours practicing their instrument of choice, be it a piano, violin, a flute; or four hours of practice daily for a decade, and that continues until the day they can no longer play. We often wonder how such people find time to do such things, and the answer to that question is another question, I believe: what does your time go into in the first place?
The Writer. A fancy title that he granted himself to justify making a blog on whatever it is he thinks of.