Courageous. I think we all have an inner desire, a talent or want, to be better. Yet, we are so easily distracted, pulled from our natural innate desire by screens, we abandon the desire which leads us into despair - ouroboros. Despair because we know, in our soul, that our desire, our obsession, needs to be nourished but we stifle the desire, put it in the back of a dark closet and forget about it. Our soul aches.
That is the great tragedy of specifically modernity, to possess the hunger but deny oneself the feast. We are lulled into a kind of inertia, a passive existence where distraction masquerades as fulfillment. And yet, the soul does not forget. It festers, it aches, it calls out—not in words, but in that quiet, gnawing discontent we carry without always knowing why.
The "ouroboros" is an apt image, for what is despair if not a cycle? The knowledge of what we could be, the failure to reach it, the numbing of that failure, and then the slow return of the realization. Schopenhauer’s "Philosophy of the Will" speaks directly to this: human existence is a pendulum swinging between suffering and boredom, driven by an insatiable will that compels us to desire but never to be satisfied. To want is to suffer; to have is to be disillusioned. And yet, in modernity, we are not merely caught in this cycle—we are sedated within it, led to believe that passive distraction is a suitable replacement for striving. But the will does not die so easily. The hunger remains, buried beneath the surface, and if we are not careful, we will wake one day to find that we have spent our lives in quiet denial of what we truly longed for.
To so captivate and so dance through the passions of obsession - you have taken us beyond beauty to the sublime. You’ve inspired me and I hope to have a piece up this week, one to echo the madness found herein.
But is it not the nature of obsession to be drawn toward something not by choice, but by a force greater than oneself? If I have led you, even briefly, beyond beauty where the sublime and the maddening intertwine, then I can only say—I succeeded. I await your piece with great anticipation. Some things are meant to be echoed.
But you flatter me too well... If there is any addiction to be found, I suspect it is not in my words but in the curious alchemy between you, the reader, and the text—the way a phrase lingers, the way a sentence unfolds like a long-forgotten memory. I am most gratified that you found pleasure in it. Much love and respect!
How fortunate, then, that literature demands neither agreement nor personal affinity, only engagement. A mind that finds fascination even where it finds no reflection—that, I think, is a rare and enviable thing. Love and respect!
WOW! Thanks! Sorry - I realize that's insignificant affection there, but still... I think that's the best time I've ever had reading an essay. I hope none of it's true, of course, but still...
Truth, you see, is a peculiar creature—slippery, protean, impossible to grasp without distorting it in the process. But your reaction, unfiltered as it is, delights me immensely. Whether you believe it or not, I suspect that is rather beside the point. The best stories are the ones that haunt us, regardless of their veracity.
Courageous. I think we all have an inner desire, a talent or want, to be better. Yet, we are so easily distracted, pulled from our natural innate desire by screens, we abandon the desire which leads us into despair - ouroboros. Despair because we know, in our soul, that our desire, our obsession, needs to be nourished but we stifle the desire, put it in the back of a dark closet and forget about it. Our soul aches.
I appreciate you bringing that up—I'll be writing an article on it soon.
That is the great tragedy of specifically modernity, to possess the hunger but deny oneself the feast. We are lulled into a kind of inertia, a passive existence where distraction masquerades as fulfillment. And yet, the soul does not forget. It festers, it aches, it calls out—not in words, but in that quiet, gnawing discontent we carry without always knowing why.
The "ouroboros" is an apt image, for what is despair if not a cycle? The knowledge of what we could be, the failure to reach it, the numbing of that failure, and then the slow return of the realization. Schopenhauer’s "Philosophy of the Will" speaks directly to this: human existence is a pendulum swinging between suffering and boredom, driven by an insatiable will that compels us to desire but never to be satisfied. To want is to suffer; to have is to be disillusioned. And yet, in modernity, we are not merely caught in this cycle—we are sedated within it, led to believe that passive distraction is a suitable replacement for striving. But the will does not die so easily. The hunger remains, buried beneath the surface, and if we are not careful, we will wake one day to find that we have spent our lives in quiet denial of what we truly longed for.
To so captivate and so dance through the passions of obsession - you have taken us beyond beauty to the sublime. You’ve inspired me and I hope to have a piece up this week, one to echo the madness found herein.
But is it not the nature of obsession to be drawn toward something not by choice, but by a force greater than oneself? If I have led you, even briefly, beyond beauty where the sublime and the maddening intertwine, then I can only say—I succeeded. I await your piece with great anticipation. Some things are meant to be echoed.
Indeed, and therein lies the terror of it.
The way you write is addictive—delicious, I would even say. So immediate, yet so elegant. Love!
But you flatter me too well... If there is any addiction to be found, I suspect it is not in my words but in the curious alchemy between you, the reader, and the text—the way a phrase lingers, the way a sentence unfolds like a long-forgotten memory. I am most gratified that you found pleasure in it. Much love and respect!
I…simply do not relate to this, but I found it fascinating to read about.
How fortunate, then, that literature demands neither agreement nor personal affinity, only engagement. A mind that finds fascination even where it finds no reflection—that, I think, is a rare and enviable thing. Love and respect!
WOW! Thanks! Sorry - I realize that's insignificant affection there, but still... I think that's the best time I've ever had reading an essay. I hope none of it's true, of course, but still...
Truth, you see, is a peculiar creature—slippery, protean, impossible to grasp without distorting it in the process. But your reaction, unfiltered as it is, delights me immensely. Whether you believe it or not, I suspect that is rather beside the point. The best stories are the ones that haunt us, regardless of their veracity.