Dearest Reader, How are you lately? I hope this letter finds you well. I came across the saying “youth is wasted on the young” by George Bernard Shaw. A little bit of a background on the dude, he was a playwright from approximately a hundred years ago. Some people argued the phrase came from Oscar Wilde which doesn’t sound too off-brand of him really, he liked using paradoxes. But then I went in deeper on the research and found out they’re both Dubliners, both of similar age (the latter being 2 years older), and they actually lived 20
minutes away from each other, and I swear I read something about Wilde’s dad operating Shaw’s dad’s eyes to fix a squint, but I couldn’t trace back to the source. Anyway, who knew right? I spent hours (ok maybe less), flipping this phrase over and over trying to make sense of what it meant. Very thought-provoking I must say. I even looked it up and asked around for people’s thoughts about it and still, I can’t seem to form my own. That same day I was looking at youth and youth symbolisms spanning over the time of our existence and found an article about Hebes, the Goddess of Youth. To my surprise there wasn’t much written about her, considering how she gave the gods immortality—something crucial to their whole brand as “Gods”, and how there are stories told on Zeus turning his mistress into a cow to avoid getting caught, or how this other time he disguised himself as a bull to lure Europa into sleeping with him. Back to Hebes, did you know she’d lost her job? Whatever spectrum of jobs Greek gods used to have, because she tripped on her own dress and it came undone. Of course, the other gods weren’t too happy with this and cast her away. They also mentioned how gods would ask for her help to feel more youthful, and though she doesn’t usually help with such things, the gods would convince her that it is the right thing to do and she does as they say anyway at the end. At this point this letter had run off course, my apologies for dragging it and your thoughts into it but I just needed to share this pondering with someone who might see it the same way I do. To get back to the point, let’s move on to the next paragraph. I guess what I’m trying to communicate is that that’s what the phrase, “youth is wasted on the young” felt like to me. Polarizing. It made sense, and yet made no sense at all. A bit like the constant state we live in as people. A bit like an allegory. A bit like this letter. And a lot like this publication I titled “Pressure”. I believe each reader will draw their own (rightful) judgements on the theme. Perhaps you see it as a monster that is invincible to all forces, one of which humans must not succumb to; or maybe you sympathise in the way us humans are so bound by this phantom construct; or maybe you’ve long accepted its existence and had grown a sense of indifference on the matter; or maybe you’ve never met with pressure at all (if so, wow, what a life you must have). We’ve all lived to experience such different things anyway. Because this letter had suddenly turned into an essay, I will end it here. Before you leave to explore pressure, I’d like to thank you for the time and brain juice you used up reading this letter. I was about to add that I hope to hear from you soon, but that would put pressure on you and that would be paradoxical of me and so I won’t. Kind Regards, Author
its a matter of waiting now
z
waiting for it to blow waiting for it to blow
what do you think of when you hear the word pressure?
what does your mind envision?
till it’s already d o n e its ugly
dont play the innocent angel, we’re guilty of it too.
we do not exist
sky
we do not exist devoid of pressure - fish in bowl
we do not exist devoid of pressure - fish bowl as astronaut head wear
devoid of pressure.
pressure
boring
is
the
eyes
you
into
the
sides
of
don’t
your
meet,
profile.
pressure is the squeezing
at the bottom of your lungs
pressure isn’t physical.
it’s phantom.
pressure isn’t physical
does it break a person or turn it into diamond?
Somethings bubbling up, threatening the borders, catching up on the limitations. It’s a matter of waiting now, waiting for it to blow. Perhaps it will, but we’ll never know until it happens, won’t we? What do you think of when you hear the word pressure? What does your mind envision? Do you see it? Do you smell it? Or perhaps hear it? Sneaky little thing, we don’t realise it’s there till it’s too late. Till it’s already done its part, till it’s already done its ugly. “Pressure is the continuous physical force applied perpendicular to the surface of an object per unit area over which that force is distributed” But let’s be honest, do you remember it as this? do you think of pressure as something physical? It’s the buzzing, the calm before the storm, It’s the silent waiting we do when silence itself becomes deafening and it makes you wonder, What drives it? What fuels pressure? Don’t play the innocent angel, we’re guilty of it too. We may as well be the cause of it if not for the thousands that already deem it on us. We do not exist devoid of pressure. Is it fear or shame of the bad? Or is it the hope and revolution for something better? Nonetheless, nothing ever seems enough. The formula says pressure equals force divided by area. Did anyone ever wonder how time is never a variable in the equation? And yet it’s there when you look up at the sky for a breather, only to be reminded of time as the clouds continue to move as if they’re chasing you. Pressure is the eyes you don’t meet, boring into the sides of your profile. Pressure is the squeezing at the bottom of your lungs. Pressure is waiting for the bad to hit you when it’s getting suspicious that it hasn’t yet. Pressure is the guessing game of when’s the balloon going to pop. Pressure is the taunting that turns you into something you’re not. Pressure is not knowing. Pressure is phantom. It isn’t physical, it’s phantom. It’s sweet yet bitter, emotion versus reason, opposites yet complimentary, like the blue and red that makes wine. It’s a prison of dreams and when unleashed, Does it break a person or turn it into diamond? We’ll only know when it happens, won’t we?