His greatest pain was that he had none. So he vowed to make life difficult for himself.
What is a life without sadness, hardship, misery? No suffering that has marked one decisively, no illness one had to battle nor challenge one had to overcome. A panne de mélancolie which stifles realistic objectivity and paints everything in rosy hues lest one forget that one ought to be optimistic and have that indispensable spring in one’s step.
What cynicism to think thusly, like spitting onto the face of all who have the desired pain yet desire nothing more than to rid themselves of it.
And that almost anyone would give anything to be in the position that I am in – and that this position seems so absolutely unbearable to me – find me the design in that!
Is it because one only strives for more when one is not content? Is it because sadism reigns over everything else?
Some talk of mind-forged manacles. What if it’s minds forged by those who threw away the keys to the manacles?
Bickering and bitching. It’s nothing more. And yet, it’s not entirely unfounded. What are we born with then? Certain unalienable rights? Entitlements? Advantages and disadvantages? Or are we but nothing more than the sum of all our parts – without aspiration and thus no chance for success nor for failure. No disappointment? That would surely disappoint. In the struggle lies reality. In opposition lies creation. In scarcity abundance.
And yet so many, many people, unwilling to stop the treadmill that their minds are running on; numbing, over-stimulating a certain area while neglecting the rest.
Leave the sinking ship while you can, they say. But what if you are one with the ship? And isn’t it the nobler thing for the captain to sink with his vessel anyway?
Ah, nobility… the confounding admiration for stupidity… or is it admiration for the power to overlook the urge to stay alive?
People shun suicide, but the captain has to stay… “What right do people have to take their lives?”, I hear them scream. “How dare he not take his own life after that”, the next minute.
No one knows what the fuck they’re talking about anyway. No one does. Aye, there’s the rub. Because talking is so much fun. Bad advice has killed more people than genuine malice. We pretend that we know, we pretend that we admire, we talk past each other and we live for something that’s quite simply not there. Not anywhere.
I can’t take not having to take it. Maybe suffering physical pain saves you from emotional distress. Maybe it doesn’t. We all want salvation; the question is whether we are so delusional as to think it will come, purely out of an arrogant sense of entitlement.
For now then, there’s pain with its shiny glare.
Give me my fair share.