Someone predestined to be the prey of our instinctive prejudice

In our life, there can be someone who is familiar to us in a way he or she comes within our sight on an irregular basis, but we have already had a sort of predisposed attitude toward that particular person, given his or her reserved manner, pertness, vanity, affectation, or sort of obtruding himself or herself as having something to shine over us, such attitude that we can’t get on with him or her ever. And, when chanced to stumble on with him or her face to face followed by some gestures of conversation or floundering to make such, we thereafter take the encounter as something far less than an encounter of such with a complete stranger, which can sometimes turn out into more closeness later on. It’s so true that it’s more of our yielding ourselves to the excess of our predisposition of such, so absolute to us. It can be true also that, if chanced to know him or her more, he or she can turn out someone stark different from our blind, sort of instinctive calculation on his or her being, like a character certificate generated by our own way of judging. But how such a thread of seemingly fixed mental forecast on someone particular but not on many others?   

Assuming to be getting connected to the coiner’s intention

The English word 'impression'--rather than an impression left by a thumb of its lines like on a piece of paper--renders its meaning full in the sense of subjectivity, its projected colorations. It's, then, proven there already, the medium, the transmission, the means of getting to, the means of dealing with our life. It's, in essence, enshrined in the cocoon of this word, what it's in reality. So do try to slow down sometimes, and see how you paint rather than being there in such a solidity--objectively, minutely, uniformly, stark naked to be hogged down. 

Keep learning on

The two things I find: the first in myself, the second in others

Retentiveness in the form of a reflex of being able to replicate an intonation of mouthing a prayer, its personal hymn, even after many years…

Living down or being able to live oneself down through the course of time, after the initial period of infatuation, alacrity, alertness....

A piece of verbiage

Inuring to, getting oneself inured to a situation like letting an adventitious element interpolate into one’s illusion of eternal coziness, the things dear as the prime props of one’s life to be swapped by something extrinsic. Or a love gone awry through our commoner’s caprice, narcissism, ego, self-absorption, want of self-command at the nick of time, and then on to this desperation called forming a habit, namely indifference that Marcel Proust qualified with the epithet ‘cruel’ but a means of survival after all. But can habit in general be more or less affected by the same process of causation, given its strong element of ‘cognitive inertia’? Here, the most beautiful thing called empathy should be invoked into defining if the same habit, like getting up early in the morning, is tinted with its splendor or not. If yes, then it can no longer be labelled as a state of such desperation, I think. 

As Proust’s fundamental belief or as the prop of his own life, it’s something like lacking the prime backup, the exigency, to deal with the changing, deceptive external world--to do without the means called art. That counts, really, as unconventional in the true sense of the word but just above the common run of sentient, language-oriented beings. He could be feeling sometimes how someone without such a means could be living, how his or her life could be barren--’chiaroscuro devoid of poetry’. 

And for me, despite myself being a fledgling aficionado, I wonder how one could deal with such flurries within and without--such colossal needs, with such a tiny heart--without a firm footing acquired through long, long labor that delivers oneself into a face-to-face encounter with the awareness of the reality universal rather than just palliative. 

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The proximity in space and time does matter so much, given the facts that a painter does know much more about a flower than someone like you and me, someone who peruses it superficially, that having a consistent mindfulness does make a huge difference in connecting to the reality, that a chain of scurrying ants as viewed from a distance isn't of such an order and discipline as observed from a close quarter rather errant--the one before, who misses a single step, being trampled on by the following one; no place for thinking for the one before but to keep oneself going on to the end, up to the extremity of this uncertainty, life.