It’s 12:38 AM. / Grogue is Traditional Cape Verdean Rum.

“——Something something something in Creole—— Supinha?”

My mind reads “Soup”inha.

A tray is before me- in the tray are small cups, each in which some amount of yellow pudding has been poured.

I like the yellow pudding. The first time I had some was just a little short of a year ago. Someone was having a birthday celebration by the beach.

It’s ground corn, boiled into a pasty pudding and infused with tasty pieces of chicken.

Yes I’d like some “soup”inha.

The tray is turned away. I wait for it to face me again.

Someone died.

Someone died in the house.

I’m in front of a door; about ten minutes ago I was a passer-by. Now I’m among the group offering condolences- supplying needed empathy.

There is food.

“How did she die?”

“——Some muttering in Creole—— Cancer.”

Ah. Genetic mutation. Unusual+Unhealthy cell proliferation. Intravasation into bloodstream. Metastasis. Progressive decline in health.

I have an idea what he means.

There’s grogue. Grogue is traditional Cape Verdean rum.

I’m not touching grogue. Not again. Not after my last experience with the drink.

I don’t really know what a hangover is. I’m not really sure.

The last time I had grogue, the following morning had me embarrassingly slide-tackled by trauma.

Post-inebriation misery, that was what I called it. I don’t think that had ever happened to me- not really. Maybe, maybe once, maybe just a headache serious enough not to be forgotten.

But anything even close to the scale of what I experienced on that post-grogue morning, nah. Nothing like that.

There is cake.

There is coffee. And milk. And sugar.

I take lots of sugar. I end up mining sugar from the bottom of my cup with a spoon.

There is couscous.

I saw one man take couscous with butter.

Couscous is interesting with butter. Usually things are interesting with butter.

I think it was butter. Or margarine. Honestly I’m not sure if I can tell these days.

Empathy. Food.

A number of classmates (previous? classmates?) are making some measure of contribution towards finding a cure for cancer.

I recently wrote a Statistics paper- one I felt expressed a novel perspective. One I feel could prove invaluable if employed towards causes like the worldwide battle against cancer.

Writing a paper is one thing. Getting needed feedback from percieved-to-be authoritative audiences is another.

Life was telling me I was probably done with the “Gifted student” phase of my life.

I’m something of a businessman now.

More cake. Just milk now.

The milk is very warm. It’s a chilly evening- warm is welcome.

More couscous. More couscous with butter.

A number of experiences are commonalities across the cultural human spectrum.

Death is one.

Premature death, is one. It doesn’t have to be.

It doesn’t have to be?

I don’t know.

I’ve been encountering a lot of difficulty working to think on a scale far larger than myself.

I had a recent conversation with someone who I used to consider a guardian of sorts.

She mentioned that usually people just want to be safe. Have a job, have money, have some sort of a safe comfortable space in which to exist.

I did not know that.

I legitimately did not know that.

But the issue then is, there are mishaps that’ll never be eradicated if every single person insisted on a perpetual implementation of staunchly self-centered thinking.

I’ve been working with Nash’s equilibrium- Working to live a life that’s best both for myself, and for society- on whatever scale it is I feel is appropriate.

How well is that working out? It’s considerably difficult to say.

Does it make sense to apply Nash’s equilibrium as a life directive, if it is almost certain that the preponderance of people will be virtually entirely self-oriented individual(with some room)-minded thinkers?

I don’t know. I’m not sure.

They’ve replenished the cake.

More cake.

There’s red wine now.

No wine Mayowa, no wine.

Get juice this time. Get juice this time.

A woman in one of the rooms is crying. Maybe not literally crying, but she’s expressing sorrow. Number of people are consoling her.

I do not know who died.

I do not know anybody here.

Whoever it is that died, once walked through this passageway in which I now stand.

If I was standing here, at this same spot a number of days ago, she would probably have bumped into me at some point.



I’ve been thinking about outcomes recently.

Outcomes. Outcomes of events. Outcomes, and events.

Outcomes, effort, aims, anticipation, and how powerful of a variable outcomes-aimed-for, are in determining future emotional states.

Events, and how powerful of an entirely unexpected blindsider they can constitute.

Recently I’ve not been wary of events as much, not really. Not really.

It’s people that bother me.

People, and the intensely bothering fact that some some people, for some extremely annoying reason, are somehow capable of harboring adversarial intentions towards others.

It’s one thing to be blindsided by an event.

It’s another thing entirely to be blindsided by a human being.

It is another thing. Another thing entirely.

I’ve been having childhood memories come up in my head.

Vivid. Very vivid. Very very vivid childhood memories.

I’ve left the bereavement group.

I’m in front of some club at Terra Boa now.

I got lost on the way home.

I’ve been getting lost like a blindfolded puppy recently.

Sometimes I find my way back home. In the dark. With very little visual aid.

And that feels great.

But sometimes I get lost. Sometimes I get very lost.

Like the day I found myself in front of the island prison.

The prison is so far from anywhere else on the island.

I do not know how, in the name of the sneezing King Solomon, I found myself at the prison. That’s one of the most isolated buildings in this place.

The watchman who drove me back to civilization’s subordinate here, told me,

“You were very lost”.

I did not disagree.

I got lost again today.

Lost right now, relative to the building that happens to currently serve as home for me, that is.

I’m pretty sure if you gave me a map I could point out my location on the surface of the earth with reasonable precision.

Yeah map. Well done. Mister Compass. Mister intuitive navigator.

Like a map will save me from this cold right now.

Somebody stole my phone.

I’ve been thinking about attitudes recently; attitudes and the effect differences in attitude have on individuals’ life paths, consequent of the inspired reactions to upheaval-effecting events.

Somebody stole my phone.

How should I react?

I could feel sad and indignant and cheated and not do much else.

i could heap a mountain of curses on the person.

I could plead with God to heap a mountain of curses on the person.

I could buy another phone. I could work towards- make concrete plans towards, buying another phone.

I could let it go. I could tell myself these things happen for the better, and that something more desirable is coming my way.

I could get pissed, and stubbornly insist that I be upset and uncomfortable- I could employ the anger and discomfort in tracking down the thief and collecting my hard-earned valuable from him.

That was what I did for my MacBook Pro.

The thief was some tiny human being like that.

I’m a big guy. I’m something of a big guy. I’m gradually becoming aware of that.

I don’t know about my phone. It’s been a while.

At what point does tenacity become baggage?

At what point is it more profitable to just let things go- to let things slide?

I don’t know.

It’s 12:35 AM.

I think clubs are another commonality across the cultural human spectrum.

I wish I had internet connection. I wish I had maps. If I had maps I would not not be having any problems right now.

But somebody stole my phone.

In my perspective, letting things go is difficult.

Letting things go is very difficult. I do not know how people do it.

Like honestly, I do not know how other people do it.

It’s 12:38 AM.

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