Heraclitus says that Pittacus, when he had got Alcæus into his power, released him, saying, “Forgiveness is better than revenge.”

- Diogenes Laërtius, Pittacus iii


Forgiveness, I have learnt in the past month or so, is a much bigger act than it is a word. Certainly, one can only attempt to forgive if there is a wrong to be forgiven. The identification of a wrong in itself is very much a task for one who can stand objectively impartial - rarest of the breeds. I suspect I'm not one of those; I indulge in the joy of being partial.

I am not convinced that between Forgiveness and Revenge, Revenge should be the inferior creature. The execution of the act to forgive requires from one's self an almost unheard and unfelt sort of kindness, wisdom and worst of all, Love.

I submit that one cannot forgive another whom one does not love. This is something I pretended I understand when I was studying Chaucer's The Knight's Tale. It seems to me to explain God's greater capacity in the act. Love, after all, seems an even larger act of sacrifice. How He is able to Love as much as he forgives or how He is able to Forgive as much as He loves will always be quite puzzling. The equation, though, is quite simple: the more one could love would ultimately lead to a bigger willingness to forgive. A little like the more sugar you add to your tea, the worst it will taste.

So, I cannot forgive and I suspect I wouldn't try to either. But, I forget - quite easily. In fact, I am convinced this is one talent or skill or whatever it is one may want to label the act I am most unwilling to give up. I forget. It is like painting over a bad poem written by someone in a pithole or other. Broad, wide strokes.

I remember. At least, I'd like to remember. At the very least, I'd like to remember what I choose to remember and I think I do remember the things I want to remember. Certainly, I must profess that remembering would require a larger effort. But, I remember.

Someone asked some time ago why I hadn't written about a certain event which lasted for the past couple of months - like it never happened. I suppose, I simply made the decision not to. I write when I fear I will forget what I choose to remember. And, all that had happened in those past months plainly is not a part of it. I still remember bits of it. Eventually, though, it would be the sort of bad poem I wipe out with my broad paint brush.

I might not forgive because I cannot bring myself to love. And, I have taken on more than one occasion, a revenge or two which the simple thought of it still warrant a high five with an accomplice and bouts of laughter. After all, I'm only human.

But, I forget.

[[ music ]] The Beatles - All You Need is Love
[[ book ]] Elizabeth Gaskell - Wives and Daughters
[[ mood ]] quite ill

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"The world is wearied of statesmen whom democracy has degraded into politicians."
Benjamin, Earl of Beaconsfield Disraeli Lothair. Chap. xvii.



Dear Mr. Prime Minister,

I don't like the way you wear your tie or the way your teeth shows and the way your eye squints when you smile. More importantly, I don't like what you say or what you do. But, I cannot put you in prison.

I don't expect you to like my tie or the way i comb my hair and wear my hat. More importantly, I don't expect you to like what I say or what I do. But, I expect you not to put me in prison.


With Love,
A Confused Voter.



I write without prejudice. Lest, some self-conscious old sod with less than the minimal level of sense of humour should come across this and put me in prison because I'm a threat to national security. No. I am not a coward; I'm just not a politician - at the right side of the game.

[[ music ]] Eva Cassidy - True Colours
[[ mood ]] cynical

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"For the sword outwears its sheath
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest."
- Lord Byron, We'll Go No More A Roving



There should be no doubts. Or should there? Either way, they are there. And, I am not very interested. Or, am I? It shan't matter. No, it shan't.

No. I don't care.

Happiness is a horrid comcept. One always envision one's self to be happy - or the thoughts, the people, the excitement - everything but happiness itself. Sometimes, you just wonder who you're trying to convince.

And, that, would be the problem.

Not happy.

[[ music ]] Janet Seidel - Perhaps
[[ book ]] John Fowles - The French Lieutenant's Woman
[[ mood ]] irate

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