The Prime Directive

Coming back from a prolonged holiday vacation to the Motherland, I have this tendency to reflect. So indulge me yet again, faithful reader, as I skirt on issues ranging from alienation, death, love, and balut . . .

'Tis an odd thing to have been born and partially raised in one country and then transplanted to another. It makes one feel a bit of an outsider on both fronts. With respect to the Motherland, one retains a base understanding of the culture -- i.e. the language, rudimentary social customs, superficial familiarity with geography -- yet somehow still feels anachronistic with the native environment. Meanwhile, one feels assuredly comfortable in the New World with its conveniences, distractions, and opportunities; however, there is also an inner feeling that no matter how hard one tries, they are always seen as the Other by more established New Worlders. In essence, one feels deep nostalgia for the Motherland and a burgeoning future with the New World. However, one does not belong to either . . .

Should death be feared? Obviously when death is unexpected and swift, one cannot even muster any type of emotion, let alone apprehension, of the coming end. It just happens, loved ones are shocked and mourn, and tales shall be told that it was not yet your time. But what if death is expected? What if the Reaper resides in your sanctuary, slowly and painfully draining your life essence away? What if your loved ones, with all good intent, take on the arduous and fruitless task of staving away the inevitable like some Sisyphean challenge? What of this sort of death? I have no answers, dear reader. I bore witness to this and not wish it upon any individual . . .

What are the boundaries of love? Yes, it is safe to proclaim that inter-species love is universally frowned upon! (To quote the immortal Chappelle: "Last night Chim-Chim jerked me off with his feet . . . only a monkey can show you that kind of love and tenderness!") Hypothetically, what if you found a love like no other but can never act on it for it will, quite literally, destroy so much? The sane thing would be to nip it in the bud, but no one ever does the sane thing when it comes to love. The soft dive of oblivion, indeed . . .

And, finally, when eating balut, make sure the requisite 17 days have passed or else . . . 'nuff said.