Desultory Aphorism

Ranting and raving at everything and everyone

Considering it long enough, I return to speak my mind on the world. Though every thought I have be some disturbing construction of some more refined thought from an earlier time—given by a more refined, learned, elegant, polished, and cultured mind—I still hold to the truth of my every conviction, with the proper assessment of their merit merely being the fact that they were sprung forth from my own mind. The world may care little for everything intellectual, and this becomes increasingly clear with each passing day—as the masses seem to be under a spell of ignorance so convincing that they do not hold a single thought that is their own—to the point that one would think any intervention to rouse the spirits or change the minds of them would seem folly. While I may be one to agree depending on my mood, I am not so cynical generally.

What appears as infamous and false is so easily spun as truth today that the only way to steer clear of any vapid ideation is to adopt a kind of Pyrrhonism, a complete and utter skepticism of everything told from the pulpit. This is a very bad sign, however, for when the labors of truth-tellers fall on deaf ears by the masses for the sake of some other narrative that is told them (though it be completely false), one goes with their intuitions rather than where proven facts may lead. One cannot so easily change their mind if they are told the other side holds to ideas that are harmful or dangerous. It is precisely this that has occurred today. A complete and utter demonization from both sides on all issues—to say nothing of the actual salience of these topics, which have become the omnia mundi in the minds of some. What we have around us today is both worrisome and tragic. Though some look for the good in it, the immediate reckoning of such scenarios ossifies any hopeful spirit, and leaves in its wake either a dangerous radicalism or a harmful idleness. What occurs from ignorance is the prince of stupor.

Mankind becomes stupid when we do not act. What alone is called good is only brought about when its achievement is fulfilled in thoroughness and labor. So many problems become intractable the more they are ignored, and so it is that the crumbling of a structure once held high only occurs faster the more weight is placed upon it without counterweights to maintain its balance.

Factions, as perfidious as they are, are wont to change and mold as time moves along. As the situations people find themselves in change gradually, so too do their perspectives on various issues. What were once considered important are quickly forgotten. What becomes ingrained in one generation is considered vacuous and dead by the next. It is only in a continuing reinforcing of ideas and values that habits and customs can be formed around particular privileges that make a nation stronger. But it must not therefore be considered imprudent or dangerous to entertain other ideas from varying cultures or people. The only idea that ever needs reinforcing is the truth that most ideas are worthy of consideration. If one learns to weigh and consider one particular viewpoint, they learn the principle by which to analyze them all.

In free and open societies, the structure of all is upheld so long as the faith of the populace is placed in them. No single idea or individual alone can possibly start a revolution. The masses as a whole must recognize what is and isn't effectual in promoting their well-being and happiness. The correlation between general abundance and prosperity with happiness need not be explicated—it is a self-evident fact, as true as the sun rises and tides recede and return. The only principle that affords mankind the opportunity to correct what in haste or foolishness was thought wise is the idea that no single overarching power—whether it be from a single individual (autocrat) or a cabal of manipulators (oligarchs)—has complete immunity when they adversely affect the populace.

Though it's been complained about for far too long, I think, that no system will ever be perfect, every system in a perfect world could theoretically work. But every utopian scheme presupposes man to be an angel, rather than what he really is: a beast made civil only in proportion to how much love and learning he has been shown as he develops. The functioning of the world is dependent on two things: competence and cooperation. Since the times of Aristotle, man has always been distinguished from beast as a result of his reasoning faculty, and he too has been called a naturally social being. These two fundamental aspects of people are what allow competence and cooperation to flourish. Cooperation is born out of necessity, competence from accident. In all ages, various tasks have been assigned to people with the goal of having them forward the prosperity and advancement of their society for the sake of future generations. If man was naturally selfish, there would be a lesser desire to procreate and endure the burdens that come with rearing a child, for all the responsibilities such an action comes with will be thought inappropriate to the happiness of any truly selfish and uncaring being. As a result, I cannot accept the assumption of Hobbes. More men are turned good for the sake of gratifying their selfish desires than are made bad for the sake of maintaining their tranquility. If one must forsake what they love for the sake of acquiring what they love more, then they must necessarily forgo anything that would prevent them from achieving their desired goal. The will of man is such that he forgets himself in the presence of his object of pleasure, and so, though he thought himself beyond all such contrivances, his nature takes over, and he devolves into something he thought he would never become. As a result of such an experience, he instantly calls for arms and takes up any battle he can for the sake of justifying to himself why what he did was actually still true to him.

Man is more shallow than he would initially allow for. It is only in the process of long conversations and questionings that one gets at the heart of his nature. The summation of life is not the summation of actions alone. Man transcends materiality in grappling with abstractions that soar high above the terrestrial world. It is what one thinks that truly makes him unique. It need not be elegant, profound, objective, or even coherent. The passing thoughts of one taking a nap are more apt towards the growth of character and the spreading of joy than any solitary study, any worthwhile book, or any long meditation can ever bring about. Any encounter with the profound must be approached like priest to an altar. A certain reverence must be followed. A certain set of principles must be allowed. A certain wrestling of thought must be undertaken. The proportion of greatness is only increased when it is followed up on by either more greatness or more profound reflections. The individual, and their soul, can be said to dominate only in the sense that they have understood something about themselves. All ideas that do not promote or encourage critical thought are incapable of being called good ideas. Man has within him the whole cosmos, all of Earth, every devil and every saint. The sun shines violently upon the rocks, and with enough focus can cause them to burst. The spirit of man, like the rock, is the analogy of all existence. What bursts forth only from ready apprehension of what the age sings is the true character of man. It is not enough to merely worry about what is to pass. The thinking man, with every second, has to be willing to entertain the ridiculous, the foolish, even the false. The power to obtain all is impossible, but the ability to dream so is not. Dreams alone lead man along a dusty path, where no herbs dare venture, for the soil be spoiled with clay and muck—old visitations of what had been. But in the recognition of what you are, you are, and can become.

I feel enough time has passed, and enough suffering has been delivered upon our species, to look towards a brighter future with each turn of the day. I cannot see why one must become nihilistic simply because the times they inhabit are treacherous, stupid, vain, and cultic. Perhaps, if you'll excuse me for sounding like Leibniz, the best world, or life rather, is the one we have now, and all that occurs to us as we live out our days is only for the best in the end. All things return to their former grandeur with time, even if those who live through them will not survive long enough to see any of its fruits. Much of humanity's happiness must be stretched out and killed upon the rack of fortune, as time watches over solemnly, if the future is to see any prosperity. Though we make many wishes and propitiate false gods, we still inhabit life, our bodies, our thoughts, our actions. What to us appears like a ghost is really a hopeful spirit. The shadow of life disappears as quickly as light, but there is enough time if it be considered rightly from the start. Men of old wish to be younger, but they really do not mean it. What they mean to say is they wish they had their wisdom at the age in which their strength and will were stronger. To think upon life is good. To reflect upon life is great. But to lament what has already passed is wicked. One can only see as far as their experience and intuition will allow them. There have been many good, noble, honest, kind individuals who hadn't given a single thought upon life. There have been those who made themselves miserable for only reflecting on it. The best man can offer to himself is to appear as a light to others in the world. There is much darkness in every waking second, so much so that anyone can easily become disheartened at the prospect of living: and thus they take it upon themselves to either leave the world in silence or in the taking of others with them. It is a brutish, hopeless melancholic that reflects so.

Although time waits for no one, and death is the only thing we rush headlong towards, I find it better to go through life determined to live through it nonetheless. I cannot make myself a pessimist; to dwell only upon how much existence is fickle and full of tedious suffering. Some people have the requisite life experience to adopt hate and despair as viable modes of being. Others, like myself, though encountering more suffering in the span of a few years than anyone should in the span of a lifetime, chose to revolt against all that was backwards and corrupt in our fleeting seconds. There are some who still come out of hell with only thoughts upon heaven. It is possible to change your outlook. All is not for naught. Even if it was, and the truths of this world's fate, already known, will undoubtedly come to pass, why should we let the inevitable be a barrier to our current felicity? Too much have I dwelt upon the misfortunes of my own life to consider it anything other than a well of potential bliss, from which my every thought shall return abundance and joy. Often do I also reflect on the fate of others, on how their lives have affected me, on how what they did inspired me, or cautioned me, or made me weep—for I could have easily become them if I was in their situation. Nay! It is utter nonsense to speak otherwise than in empathizing with people. It's a false assumption that, had you been in their scenario, you would have done otherwise, you could have changed, you could have chosen the 'right' path. That assumes you have all the experience you have now, to say nothing of your upbringing, proclivities, interests, and passing influences. Those who commit villainous acts in youth should be pitied and wept over, not treated as idols of scorn and ridicule. There is enough blame to go around in tragedies. Only the perpetrator is treated as the criminal, is pointed at and told not to be like. But most ignore their own faults, and soothe their vanity with bad comparisons.

False comparisons are the humor of the chronicler. They see situations that look similar and, with hasty generalizations, make sweeping claims about the validity of this or that idea, completely forgetting the numerous differences that lead to such similarities. So it is with life, as the fading sun begins to dim, and our moods match the darkening sky, we believe ourselves like others, when in truth there has never been identical people. Lives are deeper than what on the surface appears the same. Even those who share the majority of their interest do not have the same perspectives or interpretations on things. Similarities only help us towards a growing understanding of each other, but never towards a comprehensive understanding. Kierkegaard and Emerson wrote journals of unimaginable power, introspective and liberating in every scribble, and they too, the greatest of men, failed to capture the essence of life. Every aspect of humanity is found in Shakespeare, and yet he too hadn't touched the hundredth part of true being. Even if one could obtain complete omniscience, they would still be limited to knowing as seen from their own point of view. Thus said, it appears to me only right to reason from first principles about life from our own perspective. It is enough to say that all should judge for themselves and reach their own conclusions about the world. Many people have wondered what is the meaning of life, and with that thought lapsed into blunder after blunder as a result of it. Most men have been ignorant of the foundations of thought, and so their every extrapolation, though it be based on firm experience and right judgement, leads to erroneous conclusions. A man who has not seen or experienced enough of life should shudder at the thought of reflecting upon it. Age alone is not a stamp of reason, but it does provide color to dead perspectives long told from people in similar stages on life's way. The beauty of life is the color of it, i.e., the varying experiences.

It may be reasonable to call life an anthology of woe. It may also be just as reasonable to think it the greatest affordance anyone could partake in. Endless are its uses and potential. It is a worthy enough task to endure for its own sake. I have never met a true nihilist. In fact, I don't think people could naturally come to that conclusion on their own. They must be pushed onto that negativity in some way, by some external factor. They must find themselves in a state of abject worthlessness so indescribable and unbearable that the only solution is the ending of their own existence. I agree with Schopenhauer on the vanity of existence, yet, like him, I am not to become a nihilist because of it. I choose to contradict my own beliefs every day. I don't fear being wrong when it comes to the grand philosophical speculations of life. For me, it's not a matter of importance to construct a worldview that encapsulates an objective view of all reality. I always considered that kind of thing vain and even a bit preposterous. Those who really claim to be nihilists are pretenders. They haven't the slightest clue what they talk about, what they think about, why they think the way they do. Again, every claim on the meaninglessness of existence is based on ignorance. There has never been a human being so self-actualized, knowledgeable, and thoroughly familiar with every sect of philosophy to say in the end, after all that accumulation of knowledge, that nothing matters. If by nihilist you mean that meaning is not implicit within existence, then we are all nihilists in my view. Meaning is not a predicate! It is not something which can be ascribed to a subject on the mere ontology of the subject alone; that is to say, just because something exists, it doesn't follow that that thing has meaning within it. Meaning is a by-product of a subject's interactions with the phenomenal world. In every experience, there is a relation back to a subject, and so, with every thought, there comes an "I."

It is from the "I" as the thinking and experiencing being that the subject arises. The individual becomes their own person the more they recognize how much they perceive of all reality. This is why I say we must create our own meaning, and also why I think every attempt to make objective any worldview falls flat ultimately. There is no mind-independent standard by which to call upon in answering the question of meaning and existence. The only standard is yourself, you, the subject, the "I" of every experience. Mea causa, fac quam potes fieri sapiens. There are no benefits to moving through life in a sluggish manner, just as there is no good to come from rushing through it. It is the mark of a wise man to tutor the young, and to make them chase after old and praiseworthy things, things eternal, and of immense use that only become manifest in the passing of years. So much time is wasted on all the considerations we make with regards to our actions, but little reflection on whether our actions are actually the right ones for us. The present age is responsible for all this confusion. Everything that was once highly valued is now either ignored or thought foolish by the herd. People pontificate on the right mode of being, but forget that not everyone holds the same views as them. Everyone is an apologist when it comes to justifying their existence, and because they have no deep understanding of philosophy, they actually think that a deeply troubling or profound question. The whole history of philosophy could be summarized as the adoption of and criticism of old ideas passed down by tradition, made famous for no other reason than by their antiquity, or by the erudition of the person who uttered them. Every question in metaphysics, and by extension philosophy, is framed as if it could actually have an answer to it. The framing of a question is just as important as the answer it potentially has. Ask something wrong and you risk a category fallacy or an infinite regress.

There are an infinite number of ways to be wrong, but only a single way to be right, at least when it comes to analytical claims, claims that arise from axioms or presuppositions that are taken as self-evident. Even still, objective frameworks suffer from not having any objective basis to their presuppositions—or so the critique goes—but this is a foolish sophism, for a self-evident truth need no further justification than that it is true. This nonsensical remark only strikes the dull as wise, because the wise already know that analytical claims deal strictly with deductive logic, a priori constructions, rather than claims from experience. Claims regarding experience are, by their nature, subjective, and the problem with all subjective claims is that they devolve into a sea of words and feelings with little attention to their subtleties. This is why an analytical philosopher makes little progress with a continental philosopher. They both have two completely different frameworks. This is also the basis for all disagreements among people with regards to values, culture, and politics: everyone has a different set of assumptions that push them into either/or categories. The problem is precisely that, however: you can never come to an orderly consensus on all issues, and thus mankind, so long as we think of civilization as a worthwhile endeavor, will forever argue about what is the best mode of being to adopt, or whose values are the best, or what culture is greatest. It doesn't help that most treat these things as having objective answers, when, again, they are not analytical claims, and so, the illustrious objective answer will forever evade them. It is because of this that I always found the need to debate things like values or culture stupid. It's a subjective preference. The only culture that has value is one that affords each individual the ability to discover for themselves what is and isn't for them to adopt and cherish.

This is not to say that all cultures are equal, for some contain in them things that are regressive and harmful to human flourishing—only to point out that the concept of an objectively better culture or way of life is impossible; so-called objective measures are themselves value judgments without reason behind them. We need to get past this 20th-century philosophical bullshit of things being considered better if they're somehow objective. Since when has this been the dominant value judgment? For most of human history, we have believed in things on a pragmatic basis, rather than on the grounds of their validity. People conflate the usefulness of scientific inquiry with objectivity. Science is a process of inquiring about physical phenomena, not a method for discovering what is objectively true. We must not believe in things, we must reason and comprehend why they are so, given the evidence. So often are the terms objective and evidentially warranted tossed about that in colloquial speech they have become synonymous. They are not. Something is objective so long as it logically follows from the axioms that have been used to deduce it in the first place. This kind of claim belongs only to those subjects that are founded on principles of logical deduction—primarily mathematics and logic. Something is evidentially warranted—that is to say, it becomes standard to accept as true without having to justify it—when there has been a sufficient quantity of evidence to support the hypothesis that initially attempted to explain it—this is modus operandi in virtually all subjects that deal with evidence in any way: science, law, history, criminology, sociology, psychology, finance, medicine, accounting, linguistics, literary criticism, etc. And so, arguments may forever continue in the name of truth, but truth will forever ignore them, for she already has possession of all that is of value, and knows that the petty squabbles over definitions and facts are worthy only of a beast like man.

All this, as a result, I take with careful consideration, and weigh down the page with heavy reflections of all that to a newcomer seem profound, but are really just the prima materia that allow for independent thought and style to become possible. It has in all ages been known that those who teach themselves and are moved by a desire from their own heart are to always surpass those who are kept up by inertia alone. There are no masters to the autodidact, to the genius who sees greatness within his own person by virtue of his obvious talent and good fortune. Those worthy enough of recognizing what their natural calling is are the most fortunate people alive, for with this realization comes all the fruits of discovery that follow a dedicated seeker. All this does not come easy, however. Mastery of this kind one only acquires after many years, harshly, crudely, inefficiently. The young genius has quickness, while the master has experience. Where the student quickly attains, the master quickly dispenses with. To a newcomer in this art, all seems insurmountable—but in truth, consistency in habits and a firm foundation is all a person needs to develop in any area of endeavor. The hardest thing about such a process is seeing before you all that must be acquired, and, worst of all, seeing all those who already have obtained what you so earnestly desired. To endure your ignorance, and to even grow comfortable and happy with it, to treat every situation as a learning scenario, is the greatest thing that one can do. It is not easy, but there is no other way towards it than through the obstacles that surround it. This is especially true of composition and all other crafts that one cannot master through mechanical repetition alone. Composition is a mental craft, and so that necessarily distinguishes it from something like masonry, carpentry, or archery. With writing, one must go beyond mere thought. One must practice the art of thinking, of collecting impressions and sentiments.

The writer writes in proportion to how much he thinks, but he conveys only as much as he knows. Pithy sentences and concise abbreviations are only possible to those who have considered and weighed much in regards to the subject matter they treat. Those who write longer than is necessary, not necessarily having a large word count but having a verbose style of composition, do so as a result of either having nothing to say, which they cover over with their confusing prolixity, or because of a lack of any definiteness in their ideas. All bad writing is the result of not first thinking what you wish to say. In all things, there is a natural order which allows for its completion in the most harmonious manner, but some go against this, either out of stubbornness or foolishness, and thus make themselves ridiculous, contradicting themselves in their next sentence. There should also be a clear transition between each successive thought that arises. Nobody is master of their creative facilities, and so, it's okay if you seem to dart around in your ideas, so long as each one receives requisite attention and detail. Unless you're writing aphorisms, it's almost never enough to merely mention something without coloring it with your own impressions and reflections upon it. The best paragraphs are those that merely reflect what the writer thinks, in a manner that is free from caprice, falsehood, and boringness. Nothing is worse in writing than boringness. To put your reader to sleep is itself an accomplishment, for it shows how excellent you are at conveying your ideas in a manner that literally causes lethargy. On the other hand, a writer like Nietzsche is relentless with his pen, constantly dancing across the page, touching the poetic in prose but never fully adopting the regal garb of purple prose as Plato or Milton were wont to do. To find that balance—between brevity and life—is, at least in my experience, the second hardest thing a writer can do: the first is finding your own voice.

To find your voice is of such importance that one may write a whole book on that topic alone, and still have more to say on it afterwards. What makes it so intractable, and thus, interesting to speculate on, is how ineffable it really is. Let us recall that to write is to inhabit a mode of being that is the closest one can get to a conductor conducting music. As the sounds transcend all feeling, and one becomes engrossed in the emotions that effortlessly convey themselves with the playing of each note, you experience a complete and utter forgetting of the real world. In that moment, one is momentarily transported from their seats in the theater to the mind of the composer. Likewise, the author does something similar, but only conveys it in words: sentences composed of verbs, nouns, infinitives, adjectives, etc., all of which play to the tune of the meter, embodying a rhythm with each comma, period, colon, and dash. It may be remarked here that the greatest of all authors is one who writes what he wishes others would have written for him. To develop your own ideas on a subject for the sake of turning it into a kind of ecstatic art. To make life truly felt, existence gratified, and each tear a happy falling from the cheek. All that which is taken from your own mind is gold, especially if it is polished and precise in its presentation. A writer must also never be afraid to say what they have already written on elsewhere, for with time comes new ideas and perspectives; and even if you hadn't changed your ideas all that much, this new attempt gives you the opportunity to express it in a new way. Often, editing makes clear what you truly wish to say, but I have found that editing is unnecessary if you simply write what comes to you the instant you think of it. Often, the initial thought is not only the most exact and elegant, but also the least confusing. One can instantly tell whether a writer has thought little or much on a subject by how short their sentences are.

To return to voice, however, there are as many ways of finding it as there are topics to write upon. What one usually means by voice is the author's own presence or sentiment, but I mean something slightly different. By voice, I do not merely refer to the qualities of an author's style, but rather to the way in which an author conveys their ideas and the thought process behind each sentence. There is a vitality and life behind every idea. At one moment there is void, and then, like at the start of Genesis, a creation occurs seemingly out of nothing. We gods create not the heavens and the Earth, but the foundation to our ideas. Whether they be grand or small, deep or shallow, poetic or technical, it doesn't matter, all life stems from a common source, and this source is us. Our being, the most powerful and kinetic force possible. To yearn infinitely but attain only the finite. There aren't enough lifetimes to possibly capture all the grandeur and activity life can afford, that leisure can show, that hardship could make manifest, that poverty could destroy, that hope could restore, that intelligence could comprehend. Existence is multifaceted, and so too should our voice be—a faint echo that strives to encapsulate all that it means to exist and be in the world. An author can truly say they have found themselves when they no longer struggle to become inspired; to write without care, and to enjoy all the freedom that wrestling with each thought can afford a thinking man. A writer's highest pleasure is to write something they are proud of, independent of any harsh critique or loving praise. This pleasure is only achieved when you have been honest with yourself, and wrote only what allowed your heart to rest easy, knowing that what was penned was honest and to the point. This thing is possible, but hard to obtain. In my own case, I found it by reading all the writers that resided in the Western canon. Men and women praised for their power and inspiring compositions.

Of those who have had the most immediate and lasting effect on me, I count, in no particular order: Emerson, Nietzsche, Goethe, Shakespeare, Milton, Plato, Browne, Johnson, Hazlitt, Montaigne, Macaulay, Bacon, and Schopenhauer. The pinnacle of all is Shakespeare, without doubt or exception; of which I say this not on account of his name alone, but on the obvious omnibus of genius that is at work with every play: no aspect of humanity was left unconsidered by him, and to think, all he acquired was done by imagining alone. Emerson and Nietzsche are the two most spirited and lively of the bunch, who wrote prose as if it were poetry, and had no qualms about challenging standard conventions of composition during their time. Plato, Johnson, Montaigne, Macaulay, Bacon, and Schopenhauer, essentially the opposite of Emerson or Nietzsche, showed me what brevity was, what clearness of thought was, what it meant to write without too much emphasis on the poetic, and more so interested in an elegant or refined polish or style, that allowed all to follow and still be entertained. Goethe, Milton, Browne, and Hazlitt were the most balanced and refined; they offered me a hint at what prose could be without it being overly poetic, purple really, but also not too precise that the writing becomes boring as a result, and showed me where to strike the balance in my composition, as well as when to do so. All I compose now, and forever after, will merely be done in the shadow of those men. And although I wish I could say I had faith in my own genius from the start to discover my own voice, I hadn't the experience nor the maturity of mind to really allow that to become a reality. So then, what is a man interested in literary pursuits and elegance in writing to do when he lacks the education and the experience to really make what he writes interesting and from the heart? He is to acquire all his experience and education from books, from men who themselves either read books or lived in reality.

Now, it should also be noted that a nearly universal complaint amongst writers is that of relying too much on books as a substitute to real experience. And while I do agree with them, I feel one should give the youth still green in these noble pursuits some slack, as, being still a novum homo, they have yet to really venture out into the real world, to be suffocated by the crowd, to be lost within decisions, to be confused by every direction and indication. A young man, even if he be an astonishingly precocious genius—take Grotius, Mill, or Macaulay—still has no real preparation to face reality. No amount of Homer or Euripides, Plato or Demosthenes, Cicero or Caesar, Dante or Petrarch, Leopardi or Manzoni, Emerson or Melville, will prepare a man for the real world. People say real world, but what they really refer to are all the conditions one must accept wholesale without question if they are to function normally within modern society. Each acquiescence here is a little death, a little disturbance, a little forgoing of what makes life valuable. Life is a contact sport, the rules of which are only acquired after one accepts to play it; and if this sounds like death incarnate, that's because it is. This is absolutely death. This is death at its most palpable, at its most fervent and ferocious. This is the death knell of all future felicity. The bell which tolls the coming doom of a young man is always heard loudest the first time it rings. There is nothing quite like forgoing freedom, and losing what makes life worth living, for the sake of subsisting in a world as cruel and uncaring as ours. Has a period in history ever been more wretched than ours? Of course, without question! It would be foolish to actually say the 21st century is infinitely worse than the 1st. We have our problems and inequities, but these are much more preferable than what a common laborer had to endure in the past centuries. With this acknowledged, however, it somehow does not lighten the burden.

I feel no catharsis in knowing that the era of history I inhabit is objectively better than the past eras, because present suffering doesn't care for comparison when the comparison doesn't lessen our own hurt. We want relief for our issues now! We want to be fat and happy now! But life is not so felicitous as to shower upon anyone hoping for improvement to actually receive it. What modern man has been trained to think is that of endurance, of acceptance, of being happy with what is bad, of self-reliance (not in the Emersonian sense, of course), of various mentalities that drive competition further with other individuals rather than cooperation and care among them. The current social fabric in America is one of wretched individuality, and not in the uplifting and inspiring kind, but rather in the cutthroat, 'I'm better than the next guy' kind. What kind of society is this, one that treats human interactions as if they were businesses challenging each other to get ahead in the market; as if everything we do is without merit if it doesn't cause another competitor some hardship. The oligarchs at the top really think that competition is the essence of productivity; that nauseating social Darwinism that treats all advancement and innovation as the result of two competing firms trying to outmaneuver their competitor for the sake of establishing equilibrium within the market. They have a perverse and misguided view of human flourishing if they think the only way to win is to outdo all others on all metrics. Let me be the first to state the obvious: human beings are not businesses, we are not firms, we are not guided by profits alone, we are not purely rational creatures, and we do not maximize our utility functions (as economists are wont to suppose in their stupid models). The only thing a society gets in return for such subjugation is continuous stress, dissatisfaction, and a sense of utter helplessness. There is more to life than ending up with the most goods.

People forget how short and transitory existence really is. All this that we fight over for no reason of our own means nothing in the grand scheme of our life. Who’s going to remember a stupid bonus, or how much we made last quarter, or how we were able to finally enter that exclusive social club? All nonsense propped up before us all continuously for the sake of manipulating our habits and getting us to desire things that really are worthless and beneath notice. None of this really matters. It’s reasons like this that I understand why someone would become a nihilist. The world is set up in such a way that we may be provided just enough to be satiated, but never enough to actually feel like we’re progressing; in fact, it’s the opposite. We’re only abounding in suffering, slowly regressing to a dreadful collapse, and we’re too catatonic to do anything about it. Made ignorant, lazy, unhealthy, and proud of our worthless freedom that we do not use and take for granted. These chains are just begging to be broken. These conditions are asking for a revolt. All these things must engender rage in our hearts, and we must use said rage for the formation of a proper government, with order and well-being above all in mind. Gone and past are the days when those who have already won get to tell us we can win too if we work hard enough. Enough with the cant platitudes and self-aggrandizing attitudes. I swear, every word these mongoloids say is a mere reaffirmation of how hard they worked to attain what they have: yeah, and all the luck and assistance too. The myth of the American dream is exactly that: a dream to get the hopes up of some sorry person in a 3rd world country for the sake of being exploited here. The narrative is wrong from the start, and that’s by design. Everything we hear regarding the possibilities of success in America is just that—possibilities—upheld by two pillars: survivorship bias and the rags-to-riches story. It’s the same cookie-cutter bullshit every day.

Very few actually win, and the sooner we accept that, the sooner we’ll be able to actually make progress. All Americans view themselves as temporarily embarrassed millionaires rather than what they actually are: slaves to a wage that barely staves off penury. We are the most asinine and selfish people in the entire world. I shudder when I reflect at how stupid the average American actually is. The wits of man need be small, for most men are great fools, but even the great fool, when compared to an American, looks like a genius. All said up until this point is anything but slander. It is, in fact, the truest and most honest representation of the current system; not some mere ravings from an embittered misanthrope, but a mere reflection of everything wrong with American society, and civilization at large! This is why the vanity of existence is true, why I agree with Schopenhauer, and why life is suffering. Because every day I see more and more damning proofs of its validity. If life was comfortable, and all worked without worry of going bankrupt due to some misfortune out of their control, and actually had the opportunity of moving up in the social ladder, I would write with ink rather than arsenic—but currently, my heart does not allow me to pass over the sufferings of mankind with an uncaring eye. No! This anger is precisely the source of life, the well from which I draw all my hate and evil, and mold it into some Neoclassical statue of renowned beauty and truth. The essence of all truth in writing is found in the initial sentiments received by the author upon reflection of the topic at hand. All compositions make their latent conviction clear when the author no longer fears criticism, or feels the need to obey standard or tradition. What is true for me becomes true for all mankind. I make myself one with all that is hateful and magnificent. I become like Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Emerson, Goethe, and every other free spirit who spoke truth to power. Power is vapid!

Truth speaks her own grandeur, wrapped up in the most appealing garb, worthy of pursuit by everyone, but rarely attained even by the greatest. Writing what one thinks is hard enough, but to do so consistently, on all topics, in a manner that is not only becoming of truth herself but interesting to all who gaze upon it, is a task worthy only of a god or demigod rather than a mere mortal with a feeble memory, a false presumption of excellence, and an overconfidence that does not suit him. Whatever it is that I have scribbled thus far, I am sure, given the amount of time between my last composition and this one, as well as all the weighty meditations I have undertaken in the interstices, to say nothing of the passive influence I have had from my listening to the essays of Schopenhauer, I have not let down those who expect greatness of me. I always felt the need to not merely write upon one idea, but upon every idea that catches my fancy in the process of my contemplating that main idea. Like Baltasar Gracián, all I pen is for the sake of enlightening the minds of others. If what I think could cast a bright illumination upon the whole world, and remove every stupid conceit and falsehood from all minds, then I have done my part of existence well. If I could write with only clarity in mind, and in a manner that is truthful to me but also interesting to the reader, then I have fulfilled all my duties successfully. What was initially supposed to be an essay on writing truthfully became a long and dispassionate rant upon all matters and subjects that disappeared from my mind as quickly as they appeared in it. Not unlike Carlyle's Latter-Day Pamphlets, all I pen is not only meant to instruct but meant to leave a part of the author behind, on the hearts of every reader, and may the boldness forever linger on the soul. So much time passed, all for what? For what use did I make of my seconds today? Perhaps for naught, perhaps for all, perhaps for none: either way, we must live on!