Yes, I am a Lolicon

When I see a little girl dance and twirl with abandon, time seems to stop. Mixed with her song and laughter, I imagine being treated to an orchestra of euphoria. When I think of her coming to me after her play and dance, eyes sparkling with childish pleasure and cheeks flushed from delighted exhaustion, I sigh from a deep feeling of fulfillment. It's her bright eyes and innocent smile that just kills me. Her clear eyes with the potential of the future; her smile that shows a pure and un-defiled soul--these fill my heart with sublime peace and contentment. You would give anything to protect those eyes and that smile. It's one of the greatest pleasures in life to see the play of an innocent child. This may be too cheesy, but if you get the right state of mind, the words above don't come close to describing the emotion.

But the more you love that little girl, the more you begin to feel dissatisfied with time, the world and yourself. Time won't stop--she won't be a child forever; she won't be dancing nonchalantly eternally. She would leave the realm of innocence and join you in the not so ideal world of grown-ups. The world that she'll grow into is a world filled with contradictions and bewilderment, and you become apprehensive at the path that she would take. You begin to look at yourself with criticism: is this the world that you would have her inherit? Have you lived your life as a beacon, a guide, a standard for her to look at, or have you just been an object of cynicism and example of what not to become? You remember the feeling of how you'll give anything to preserve her smile, but how much have you actually given? Have you really given her anything of value? Do you have the courage to look back proudly into her innocent eyes? You feel like you want to be the Catcher in the Rye.

But haven't we all grown up alright? Perhaps in our own standards or justification; but can these hold up to the tears of a child? It seems like a cardinal sin to lie to that little girl. It's like seeing yourself in the little girl's eyes: would you have been proud of yourself if you were that child? The room for growth is not for children alone. Adults most of the times are the idiotic children of the world.

It's just that little girls are closer to my heart. But you can be a shotacon and choose little boys if you like. The gender is not the point. You just got to love a child. Even the cursing and devilish ones that you see in the street. Even them cannot hide the emanation of their innocence.

Nobody's perfect, I understand that fully. But since when is it alright to stop and give up?

Every father is a lolicon. Every mother a shotacon. A daughter will never grow old in a father's eyes. A son will always be a mother's darling boy. Every woman will still always be Daddy's little girl. Every man is still Mama's boy. As for me, yes, I am a lolicon. But not in the perverse sense. At least that part should be clear.

How I Love Thee, Peer Pressure!

How do I love thee, Peer Pressure? Let me count the ways... 

I love Peer Pressure for how it twists my arm. I love Peer Pressure for forgetting the essence of a group--which is a collection of free individuals. Peer Pressure is wonderful since it forces one to conform out of intimidation and threat of expulsion. I admire Peer Pressure for how it disregards discourse and reason. I just can't get enough of Peer Pressure for forcing someone to come to a decision between leaving or staying. I have to hand it to Peer Pressure for  the simplicity with which it deals with discord or disagreement: be here, or be somewhere else. I like how your value as an individual is contingent upon your conformity to the group. You're dispensable if you just don't agree. Oh how I love thee, Peer Pressure!

Between the individual and the group, something's gotta give. 


I'd like to be dramatic and say it's the individual against the masses. Or like what Nietzsche says, the individual against the herd. Maybe I take my own counsel and company most of the time--I can't be sure--but I am always mystified by this creature called Peer Pressure.

The opposite side can say the same as well. They can be as equally mystified by an individualistic preference. No man is an island after all. Humans are fated/born to be social creatures. So, why the predilection for being alone?

This dichotomy is what's interesting. This polarity is what amazes me. I'm left speechless with this excluded middle. This dualism is what makes me laugh in irony. As someone remarked, you either join them, or leave them. But why should the choice be limited to two? I find that position hilarious. 

Of course, I have  to admit that this is slightly born from bitterness. Maybe, more out of disappointment. I have this penchant for looking things ideally. I always thought that a group allows for personal differences and that a group's strength is derived from diversity rather than homogeneity. I would have thought that assimilation to a group was done through discourse and acceptance rather than subtle coercion. Any goal worth doing is worth communicating properly. I would've preferred persuasion of the diplomatic, not the dictatorial, kind.


I guess I was looking for rational discourse free from pressure. But that would be impossible. When I was younger, I always greeted Peer Pressure with the middle finger and walked out the door. But as you grow older, you get to appreciate the diversity of life and it's viewpoints. You get to have an allergy for absolutes. You become interested to learn how these viewpoints look like before packing your bags. What you can't comprehend isn't necessarily bad; it's still better to create avenues of understanding. Once you get to see things from different viewpoints, that's when you can better judge the situation. Learning to understand is less complicated as well. Hell, it can be just being a pacifist and a coward.

I love Peer Pressure for its directness and simplicity, but I don't like it for it's lack of creativity and flexibility. I like to deal with Peer Pressure with some patience and understanding, but as we know, patience and understanding are exhaustible resources. But until that time, Peer Pressure would continue to have my love and affection. All Hail Peer Pressure!

The Rain, The Homeless, and Charity

The rain isn't half bad when you're looking at the falling rain from your room's window while holding a cup of warm choco. While sipping your drink, you think that the ashen skies have a distinct charm to them. There's something calming and thoughtful in the rain clouds glowing with a toned-down light, joined by the shushing sound of the rain on the streets and rooftops. You don't feel a hint of menace; you feel like in a meditative trance. Whether good or bad, the rain even brings thoughts and memories of love and romance. During these times, the rain ain't half bad. 

It's nice to be inside with the rain pouring, problem is when you don't have a roof on top of your head. I say this because I remember the homeless. One homeless in particular. 

There is a flyover in front of our office, and you can see this homeless lying down at the foot of the flyover, just along the railing. His situation intrigued me since he was able to lie down on that flyover and sleep. Naturally, vehicles would pass by his "bedroom"; imagine getting sleep in a situation like that. Come late at night, think about counting passing ten-wheeler trucks instead of jumping sheep. But what takes the cake is how that homeless seems to sleep like he's lying on soft pillows and satin sheets. He was so relaxed that I have thought several times that the guy must've been dead. But the rising and falling of his chest told me otherwise. I had to smile whenever I see it. 

Of course, you know that that guy is not right in the head. But that is a topic for another day. The rain just made me think of where that homeless would make his bed. He may tolerate the noise of the vehicles, but I don't think he can take the cold, wet, and chilling rain. I thought right. When I looked outside through the night's downpour, the homeless didn't want to be a soaking wet homeless. But where could he have slept that evening?

This then led me to think about the other homeless. Especially the homeless children. It was freezing that night, then add to that being drenched by the rain: it would be a miracle if you didn't get consumption in the morning. Imagine kids having to sleep through that. Without shelter and blankets, you've got to admire the tenacity of our street ruffians. I would have to tip my hat to them for surviving. 

Both of these--the harsh weather and the plight of the homeless--made me criticize myself a little. What have I done to help? Shouldn't I try to make a difference to these people's lives? Can't I do anything, no matter how small, to improve their situation? 

I know this is being soft-headed and melodramatic. I know this is something that anyone had thought of while seeing someone with a condition poorer than one's own. It's wanting to be heroic. You would like to work for charity somehow. Even if it's not that, it could be the recognition of a need for social justice. 

Then reality and selfishness smacks you in the face. You think about how what you earn isn't enough to cover all your expenses. You think about how you would become charitable when you're rich enough. You would think that you're already paying taxes, it should be the government's job. You would think that you need to take care of yourself first, if there's any left over (which is usually none), you can give to charity. You would think that everybody has their own share of troubles, and everyone should take care of their own. Eventually that spirit of charity would become just a foolish and impractical notion; a whim. You would then live your life as normal like you haven't seen anything at all. You would think about the next movie, nightout, dinner, date, clothes, shoes, gadget, groceries, mortgage, and so on, and so on. 

But when I feel the cold wind brought about by the rain, I think what's more chilling is not the weather itself, but the coldness of people. I imagine a homeless child (a moe loli, if possible) shivering in the steps in front of a building, thinking to herself it would be good to have warm place to lie and that some blankets and a warm cup of choco would be nice. I imagine her teeth chattering while wishing for someone to help. But all the answer she will get is the freezing cold wind and the onslaught of the downpour. She's already chilled to the bone, but it's how the passers-by that glance at her with indifference and apathy that finally chills her heart. I can't imagine how it would have felt to be so cold inside and out. It would have been nice to feel even a warm tear rolling down your cheek, but I would suppose it was too cold to even cry. 

I'm being soft-headed again. What I need to think about is the next movie, nightout, dinner, date, clothes, shoes, gadget, groceries, mortgage, and so on, and so on. I have no time to listen for imaginary cries for help. All these inclinations to help are just like rain drops that roll off my umbrella as I walked through the rain on the way home. My passion for charity is about as hot as the freezing rain that fell down that night. 

And so, I just pass the buck along. It's something I can't do anything about. I'm not rich, and I don't have time and money for charity. I would just have to pay my taxes and hope for the best. I would just wish the flyover homeless the best of luck, and tell my imaginary homeless loli to not give up and fight hard. All of these I do while sitting by my window, watching the rain fall down, and sipping my cup of warm choco. 

Apology for the Suicide

You may condemn the suicide, but you can't deny the suicide respect. This respect is not a platitude given to a nameless dead. For those who have known great pain and sorrow, the suicide is a fallen comrade whom we can empathize with and think of with tenderness and admiration. Yes, even admiration. 

I am speaking about the suicide that looked at life in the eye and was disgusted with the sight. I'm referring to those crestfallen at the world they were thrown into. I'm talking about the suicide who decided that the best course to take in life is to end it.  If it takes courage to continue, it also takes courage to quit. 

There is much to say about everything not being all that bad; I agree with them wholeheartedly. It takes continued existence and patience to be able to understand that fact, even vaguely. Maybe the suicide would have done better to wait to have been able to see that truth, but the suicide knows it is excruciating to do so. One can still smile, but the suicide knows that even that can be painful. There are days of dark and light, but it is that continuous cycle that exhausts and enervates the suicide. 

The suicide can be admired for honesty and sincerity. The suicide is honest enough to admit that this life is too much, is of no absolute value, and is absurd. The suicide has decided to end it, and has followed through. In an ironical sense, the suicide lived for what he or she believed in, only it led to the suicide ending his or her life. 

One can say that the suicide is weak and foolish. That has some truth. The suicide is weak and the act of suicide is the admission of that. But let's remember that not everyone is strong. More accurately, not everyone can find enough reason to aspire for strength and persevere. Those born strong may find this quizzical, but those who grew strong from weakness would be sure to understand. We may disapprove of weakness, but it exists nonetheless. The allowance for strength is also the allowance for weakness. 

Let us not forget that the only shoes we wear are our own. We can only approximate how another's life is lived, but to truly know of it is impossible. What the suicide sees, feels, thinks, and believes is a matter for the suicide alone. If we can't respect the suicide's decision, we should respect his or her agency and freedom. We might think the suicide mistaken with his or her views and action, but it's still the suicide's decision to make. It was the suicide's pain and revulsion, not ours. 

The suicide is all of us. For those who are unaffected, they are to be envied like how you would envy the blissful ignorant. One can say that those who contemplated suicide and desisted more deserve our respect. But the suicide also deserves some respect for lasting as long as he or she can. The suicide may have chosen to retire from the battle early, but you can't say that the suicide hasn't put up any fight, nor has suffered any wounds. Even if a soldier runs away after the first volley, the fact that he stood up to face it before fleeing is not without merit. 

Should we pity the suicide? The suicide would have no need for it. You may say the same for respect. Perhaps, but respecting the suicide is more for our benefit than the suicide's. Again, the suicide is you and me. It takes some understanding of the human condition and magnanimity to see the suicide in a gentler light. It takes an admission of our humanity and how some of us have lesser vessels than others. But even so, we have to recognize the presence of struggle, no matter if it was given up. 

This is not to condone suicide nor to encourage it. This is just an apology for the suicide. This is not an appeal for charity but understanding. The suicide is our brethren. This is more so because of the fact that they have leapt off the edge. The suicide has shown us another possibility--it may not be the best, but it is a legitimate one for us being human born.