Pythagorean Cup

 

What if happiness is contained inside a Pythagorean cup? Overflowing happiness would then simply drain away and empty the cup completely. This is why it is important to listen to Mr. Micawber’s advice and live within our means.

Similarly, if we apply the same concept to knowledge, it would be difficult to learn if one were to be satisfied with a certain level of knowledge or overestimate themselves. According to the Dunning-Kruger effect relatively unskilled persons suffer from an illusory superiority as a result of a meta-cognitive inability to recognize their own ineptitude and evaluate their ability accordingly instead of letting ideas/perceptions stagnate.

IBMC #01 The Perfect Match

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Captain Flint was crestfallen. Had the clock turned back a few hours, one might have caught him beaming as if Christmas had come early, but now only a vacuous smile decorated his facial features. The Cap’n was bold but Lady Luck had not graced him with her favor. However, that was not enough to trouble him, he was a man of honor not a soldier of fortune who would sail only when things looked promising. He had given his word and he meant to keep it: he would live through this. Unlike his namesake a Pirate of ill repute, Flint fought fair and square, which is why he lost what initially appeared to be a nondescript duel between him and his mutinous quartermaster John Stone. Ironically, Flint now stranded on an island- a casteaway no less- could not light a fire with a flint, so he relied on the last of his matches, a perfect one that had not been lost to damp owing to rainfall to provide some semblance of warmth and commiseration. Reluctantly his eyes trailed the distant horizon which the smoke signal moved toward like a magic carpet… in a momentary lapse of sanity he burst into laughter because he thought it was a fitting scene which represented how his hope had gone up in smoke.

Gist: In essence, what I wanted to capture was how things don’t always go our way in life and how we may as well laugh at our misfortunes and learn from them.

1

 

Denatured Nature

My personality is little more than a bonsai tree

for a many a year I have waited patiently

to find the promised prospects that once awaited me

if only my will was wrought of steel

I could dare to feel

more than the four unyielding concrete walls

that drapes my thoughts like a pristine pall

Clochard (beggars can be choosers)

My friend, Don’t go around giving alms
to every man holding up his palms
The money would be better spent
if you gave it to me instead so that I could pay rent
for that man right there,
can easily afford to pay our bus fare
make no mistake, he is my landlord!
who became a professional clochard of his own accord!

AN:

Rumor had it that a man had gotten on a bus, was in the middle of a lively chat with the person sitting next to him when the bus got stuck at one of Dhaka’s famous traffic gridlocks. A beggar came by and asked for some change, the interlocutor was about to oblige when the man stopped him and said the beggar was in fact his land lord who made more money through begging than he could after an honest day’s hardwork.

Well as skeptical as you may feel right now, note that in Bangladesh people have bought farmland, built hospitals for the poor, and much more just by begging. Also, beggars don’t have to pay tax. :p

Beggars can be choosers! 😉 (only in Bangladesh)

 

 

 

Friends forget faster than laser light dots and a cat

Only imaginary friends are real!

I’m the hamster in a wheel;

My head spins like a merry go round,

Just so everyone else can enjoy the ride.

Don’t (re)mind me, I’ll always be by your side,

Someone to ignore and at times hide.

In my truth your lie confides,

not unlike when matter and antimatter collide:

We combine to create a brilliant display of nothing.

To think that once we could have accomplished anything!

Toxic friendships mollify my mind,

work world wonders for my ego,

convince me to leave myself behind,

reassert what I already know:

Life cannot be experienced vicariously,

second-hand happiness is worthless and less.

I am not a placebo for another’s ego,

In my book there’s no such thing,

Mr. Algebra can go solve his own problems.

Meanie The Genie: Recycled Happiness

Written by Ruminator (Also known as Abrar)

‘What is true?’

That was all it took for a solitary thought to impart some semblance of meaning to me: truth is an ageless face with creases of worry sketched into its forehead. Truth no longer has any self-esteem. It suffers at the hand of a sycophant known to me as ambition. In short, Truth is not a chronic worrier, rather it is a chronic warrior, one that has been fighting from dusk to dawn just to remain free of bias. There is not a shadow of a doubt that Truth has fallen prey to the wily charms of its cousin the ever so sweet prevaricating lie.

Mother always told me that if I ever went in search of the absolute truth, the first place I should look must be our local convenience store. There I could purchase it at half the typical retail price.

                                                                        *

which brings me to this moment…

Riddled with bullet holes and smelling of moth paintball the gray curtains could not help but watch in horror as unadulterated daylight passed right through them. A rather opaque sight for the mind to digest. Then came the ghastly wind, giving the poor curtains goosebumps. Droplets of rain soon joined the fray soaking a chillingly cold cloth in acid rain. The general stationed in the sun must have noted the dismay in my eyes for he sent more troops. Before long sunlight burned through my ragtag defenses, spiraled and nose-dived into my eyes like a kamikaze pilot. I must have fainted because my mind went blank, kind of like your answers or lack thereof in response to a surprise math quiz.

Nothing works the way it’s supposed to. Nothing. I wouldn’t even be in this sorry mess if I hadn’t been ruminating all night. In fact, It was now impossible to tell if the real nightmare was just a bad dream or reality. More on that later, first let me kvetch about the situation at hand.

Picture this: Majestically lying inside the world’s most hygienic dumpster-a metaphorical one- was a kid. Littered all around him were pieces of scrapped paper. Either he had writer’s block or he harbored a grudge against trees. Had the RRRR- radical, reduce, reuse and recycle – environmentalists found him, they would surely have taken pity on him and upgraded his status from tramp to trampled. Safe to say, to the boy that topic- one rife with social justice warrior’s tears- was #1 on the list of tabooed taboos.

Who could the person in question possibly be?

Titration

Written by: Anindita Farzana, Class XI, Section Blue

Titration
Titration is defined as “a common laboratory method of quantitative chemical analysis that is used to determine the unknown concentration of an identified  chemical constituent that is of interest in an analytical procedure.

Titration is a four-piece puzzle.
Three fourths of it have been assembled.
Your assignment is to find the fourth piece and move on.
You use a long calibrated device of glass to release the analyte.
Drop by drop by drop
Till the solution in the receiver turns blushed.
Simple, right?

It’s a time-limit-turned-taxing task.
Work too sluggishly , fail to attain the endpoint
Work too hastily, the endpoint shall evade you
Your solution will turn a blinding, vibrant pink, and you’ll have to start over.

Never the less, practice makes perfect
The time will eventually seem substantial.

On the other hand, how many lives does one have?
How many do-overs do we get?

A chemistry exam lasts an hour and a half
Yet several years of life seems infinitesimal
In the ceaseless pursuit of the missing piece

What if I exhaust my time?

What if I spill?

I can’t possibly start-over!

Once More

Written by:

Sreyan when he was twelve. He is currently in class 7.

Sit Beside me once more,

The happy days we spent, mo more

We’d sit inside the gazebo

Glancing at the sky

You render me speechless

I cannot let go

We planned to grow older together

But there is no resurrection after death

Hold me tight, drain your sorrows

Let’s make our last moments together memorable

I am yours eternally,

My sweet chocolate coated ice cream,

farewell.

A very heartbreaking story about a boy who finished his ice cream.

Mirror Mirror On The Wall, Why Did Humpty Dumpty Have To Fall?

Recursion: Life of a mirror, mirrored

Written by Ruminator, a.k.a Abrar Far HAN SOLO Zaman, Class XI, Section Orange

Have you ever looked into the mirror, gazed upon an uncanny reflection, and reflected on the disparity between yourself and your image for hours? If the answer is ‘yes’, you my friend have a lot of time to spare. Most of us aren’t as fortunate. Speaking for myself, as a sentient immortal object that is seemingly inanimate in the oblivious eyes of the world, I have all the time in the world for such thoughts to occupy my meticulous mind.

It wasn’t long before it dawned on me that while people get to see glimpses of themselves when they stare at me – how rude!- the same could not be said for me. In an epiphany it occurred to me that it was not I who changed over time, but rather the world. All I could do was merely reflect that change in my own small way. “You are what you meet.” is an age old aphorism which I have come to believe.

I’ve often wondered what would happen if I was placed in front of the celebrated Mirror of Erised. You see, my deepest desire is to stop being on the outside looking in. How then, could the Mirror of Erised show me an image which would fit this criterion?

If a mirror surface is not on the outside, it cannot reflect. I would cease to have a purpose. What meaning can a perpetuated purposefully purposeless existence have? After all, technically I am nothing more than an image. Nothing I think has any physical effect on reality. I am but the movie we know life to be played a fraction of a second later, the product of light hitting a wall it cannot triumph over, a byproduct of light being confined in escape.

Often I overhear soliloquies and pep talks intended for private ears. As much as I would like to help these individuals allay their fearsome fears, it is one of those fights that must be fought alone.

As an object I cannot of my own accord look at myself. My very life is a literal interpretation of Rene Descartes’ wise words, “The self is incapable of looking at itself objectively.”

The world does not help me see myself. No. I help the world see itself: Good & Bad, Happy & Sad, Calm or Mad, whatever may come. Through introjection I have become a part of the world. The role I play is to help others figure out what their role happens to be. “Amor Fati”, I love things as they are, and as of right now things are changing, as per usual. Be that as it may, being empty  does not hinder me from being an effective fun house mirror and the reason behind much merry making mirth. Of what use is laughter when you are the laugh? Albert Camus said, “one must imagine Sisyphus happy.” I will say “One must look into the mirror and imagine it happy.”