the micro blog of soulcruzer

I don't consider reading a passive absorption but rather a clandestine heist. Every word, every phrase I encounter isn't just seen; it's stolen, pocketed deep into my being. I become an artful pickpocket in a crowded street of ideas, navigating through authors who, like market vendors, lay out their wares, unaware of the silent transactions I partake in.

As I meander through this bazaar of thoughts, my fingers, light as a feather's touch, lift concepts and emotions from unsuspecting paragraphs. These stolen goods, once mere ink on paper, undergo a transformation within my mind, morphing into something entirely my own. In this act, the words are reborn, their meanings altered in the crucible of my consciousness.

But what about the authors, those weavers of words? They seem blissfully ignorant, or perhaps willfully so, of the theft happening in broad daylight. As a reader, a shadow passing through their created world, I leave with pockets heavier than when I arrived. The authors, in turn, are thieves as well; they have stolen from life, from their experiences, from the world around them, to create their texts.

Thus, the cycle continues, a dance of silent thievery where ideas are the currency and understanding the prize. In this dance, I am both thief and victim, for as I steal from the text, the text, in turn, steals from me, taking my time, my thoughts, my preconceptions, leaving me transformed.

This world of words is a strange paradox, a place where theft is not only accepted but encouraged, where stolen goods are not diminished but multiplied with each act of larceny. Here, in this realm, the greatest heists are celebrated, where a reader like me walks away with a mind brimming with stolen treasures, riches of thought and emotion that weren't there before.

Standing as a successful thief in the quiet aftermath of reading, I ponder: What have I taken, and more importantly, what has been taken from me? For in this exchange, this delicate balance of give and take, lies the true magic of the written word.

Is not the act of reading the most exquisite form of thievery, where the greatest reward is the transformation within the soul of the thief?

I received my Xreal Air 2 VR glasses yesterday; they were delivered five days early. I'm currently using them as I type this. I'm utilizing the Nebula app, which provides me with three screens to work with, which is quite nice. Typing is still a bit awkward since I'm a hunt-and-peck typist who needs to see the keyboard to type. A touch typist, however, would find these glasses incredibly efficient.

One thing that none of the reviews mention is that the closeness of the glasses' screen can cause eye fatigue. It might just be that I need to get used to having the screens so close to my eyes—the actual physical glasses screens, I mean. The virtual screens are adjustable, so you can position them near or far, which is helpful. 

Side Note: Maybe the weird feeling I have after a session wearing the VR glasses is a result of the Jedi MF your brain undergoes in VR. I mean, essentially, the mind is tricked into believing it’s seeing huge 201 inch screen, when in fact, it’s seeing two tiny 1.5 in screens made to look like your viewing 201 inch screen. Your eyes have to readjust to reality.

The great thing about these glasses is that they create a mixed reality scenario. I'm able to use my physical keyboard in conjunction with upto three virtual monitors. However, a minor issue is that it's easy to lose track of your mouse, and the only solution I've found so far is to disconnect and reconnect the glasses.

Another positive is that the glasses don't need to be charged because they draw power from the connected device's battery. You can uses the VR glasses with any device - your phone, tablet, laptop, or gaming console.

The best features of the Xreal VR glasses are that they are lightweight and resemble regular sunglasses.

These glasses excel at creating a home cinema experience with a screen size of up to 330 inches, making them ideal for watching movies or YouTube videos. Although I'm not a huge gamer, I do play Baldur's Gate 3 on my MacBook Pro. It's a significant upgrade to play on a big screen and to be able to look straight ahead instead of down.

However, my primary use for these glasses is when I'm working away from home. Having a three-screen virtual desktop is immensely beneficial to me. I'm also excited about using them to watch movies during train journeys and flights.

In a realm of lined shelves, where books stand guard like silent sentinels, there dwells a contemplative soul. His hand cradles a chin full of stories yet to be told, while behind him, a skull perches high, a mute companion amidst the chronicles of humanity. This man, a sculptor of words, draws breath from the dusty tomes that surround him, each a mosaic of memories and silent whispers from adventures past.

As the skull watches over the sea of literature, it whispers of life’s impermanence, urging the writer to spill ink with fervour and truth. For in the heart of his stories, unlike the ticking clock of existence, the final chapter is an illusion, a pause before the tale is reborn from the minds of those who dare to traverse his pages.

I’m on the road that leads to all ends. I have been for some time. On this road lies an odyssey of dust and dreams where every traveler’s footsteps echo with the whispers of infinity. It’s a path woven with the threads of many destinies, a highway spanning the breadth of existence, touching horizons where the sun kisses the earth goodnight and greets it again at dawn.

I’m on this road. My eyes reflect the cosmos. My feet treading the fine line between wandering and wondering. The road stretches out, a ribbon through the heartlands of the soul, winding through the valleys of thought and over the mountains of imagination. It’s the road less travelled, and yet it feels worn out by the journeys of countless pilgrims searching for the sacred and the profane, the ordinary and the extraordinary.

To be on this road is to be a part of a grand narrative, yet apart from it, writing my own story with each step. The road that leads to all ends is life itself—unpredictable, beautiful, treacherous, and profound. It promises nothing but offers everything: adventure, fear, love, loss, discovery. It’s where the heart learns to dance to the rhythm of the landscapes it traverses.

Travelling this road, I collect souvenirs not of things but of experiences—each one a story, a poem, a piece of the puzzle that is me. There are crossroads marked by decisions, milestones defined by moments of clarity, and signposts written in the language of the stars, guiding me onward, ever onward.

The beauty of the road to all ends is that it is both literal and metaphorical. You might find yourself upon the asphalt veins that crisscross the land, or you might be meandering through the pathways of your own inner geography. Every end on this road is a beginning, every sunset a prelude to a new sunrise.

As the road unfolds, I realise that all ends are merely illusions, mirages on the horizon line where the sky’s blue fingers clasp the earth’s green hands. The road is endless, and I am eternal, a traveller whose journey is measured not in miles or years but in the breadth of my consciousness.

It’s here, in the quiet moments of travel, that I understand the road is not something I conquer but something I become—a living map etched in the lines of my face, written in the stories I carry.

So, my friend, how will the road shape you, and how will you shape the road?