dotism

The Modern Life of Origami, an Art as Old as Paper

There was a certain uselessness to it and she began to feel as if any pretense to it being otherwise was itself just as useless. A use for herself was needed and she began to burrow into the recesses of her experience in search of it, her mind twisting itself into a contorted mess as she furiously flung the soil of her soul about the room, scratching at the filth of it in hopes of unearthing something useful, herself sinking deeper into it and finding little more than a void and a vacancy: Perspiration and determination amount to little when there is simply nothing more to be revealed.

She now felt disheartened and she toppled limply as if she were a doll tumbling from a shelf, herself now falling into the hollow which she had so recently exposed, its uselessness bottomless and herself now splayed and insensate on the floor.

A purpose was required to delineate differences between this day and the one before it, something to allow a sensation of definition, the usefulness to become a direction, the sudden apparition of a declaratory signpost alongside a road long-thought abandoned and without purpose or destination. Perhaps all she wanted was to feel another’s hand in hers as she went along this stricken path, the grasp of a traveler in fellowship, the grip and solidity of something known and certain, herself allowed the comfort and confidence in a beacon which was illuminated by a flame without flicker, something altogether brighter than herself: She a dampened wick which had been extinguished long ago.

Though even this exploration of a desire abstracted was merely a distraction from the conceptualization of an implementation of a day spent proud and purposeful: This was never it and this forsaken road shall not be found intersected: It remains useless as it pulls her along its solipsistic spiral, forever crude and contaminated: Forever inflected and useless.

She shall awake tomorrow and repeat promises into mirrors which remain dim and unconcerned: Herself forever deluded, herself ugly before herself, and herself remaining forever useless.

Picturing a Voice — Margaret Watts-Hughes and the Eidophone

The heritability of self-control: A meta-analysis

This finding provides evidence that when aiming to understand individual differences in self-control, one should take genetic factors into account.

Now I will wrap my agony inside my pocket-handkerchief. It shall be screwed tight into a ball.

— Virginia Woolf, The Waves

The Tibetan Research of Herbert Benson — How a scientific attempt to demystify Buddhist meditation yielded astounding results