The pseudo-etymology of the word ‘Rational’ (aka David attempts to do an Alfian Sa’at)
‘Rational’ is derived from its near twin ‘ration.’ A rational individual is a rationed individual, who measures his emotions, words, and deeds for maximum impact. Nothing is wasted, all is measured, calculated, focused, tabulated.
It is a misconception that rational folks have no emotion. It is simply that emotion, like any other currency (money, energy, the 24 hours one gets each day), is meant to be spent to achieve maximum satisfaction, effect, or manipulative force.
But perhaps the way in which a rational person most resembles his etymological root is striking: ‘ration’ carries the connotation of warfare, of refugeedom, of quiet, sustained (prolonged? Chronic?), desperation. Observe him, how unnamed and unnameable longings and doubts gnaw at his heart. He lives like a captive – in the soured/panicked/subdued hope of a better tomorrow, while today passes him by like a kempetai* – feared and avoided. He eats like a refugee – the tasteless meal-bars crumbling like ash. And he breathes as if drowning, exhaling with every breath a frantic death-wish. How he longs for a touch, a voice, a light. Those aren’t on the meal-cards.
*Japanese secret police during the Occupation of Singapore. Likely spelt wrongly.
‘Rational’ is derived from its near twin ‘ration.’ A rational individual is a rationed individual, who measures his emotions, words, and deeds for maximum impact. Nothing is wasted, all is measured, calculated, focused, tabulated.
It is a misconception that rational folks have no emotion. It is simply that emotion, like any other currency (money, energy, the 24 hours one gets each day), is meant to be spent to achieve maximum satisfaction, effect, or manipulative force.
But perhaps the way in which a rational person most resembles his etymological root is striking: ‘ration’ carries the connotation of warfare, of refugeedom, of quiet, sustained (prolonged? Chronic?), desperation. Observe him, how unnamed and unnameable longings and doubts gnaw at his heart. He lives like a captive – in the soured/panicked/subdued hope of a better tomorrow, while today passes him by like a kempetai* – feared and avoided. He eats like a refugee – the tasteless meal-bars crumbling like ash. And he breathes as if drowning, exhaling with every breath a frantic death-wish. How he longs for a touch, a voice, a light. Those aren’t on the meal-cards.
*Japanese secret police during the Occupation of Singapore. Likely spelt wrongly.

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