Does it cause creativity and empathy, or does it just amplify those virtues? I can't remember.
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[FONT=Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif]After a few weeks I'll take a day off, and reality becomes a high. It's tempting to think in clichés:
I didn't see it coming until it was too late. Now that I have my mind back, I see what a waste this past month has been.
But what has changed? I am less happy, less content. I am neurotic, imagining problems into existence. I am self-absorbed and bored. And these aren't the symptoms of withdrawal. I've always been this way.
So I had to ask myself: why cling to this Freudian super-ego? That seemed to be where all those feelings of disgust were coming from. I had disowned my values, opting instead for the values of the God called Society, still never truly convinced I was at a loss in being high. It was blind faith in ideas I ascribed to some "collective consciousness" designed to shift the burden of choice away from me.
What can the effigy of mass-man make me feel guilty about? Not wanting to attain the impossible perfection of Christ? Not lusting after meaningless commodities? Or perhaps the guilt should come from violating arbitrary taboos and the rules of an illiberal government?
Looking back, it was a joke. I'll always be an ostensibly strange person, a "conscious schizophrenic" -- why not own that? Whatever illusory choices one thinks one has, whatever precarious success one achieves, the question of Life still hovers around them, a series of bizarre vignettes spiraling towards the unseen.
Maybe child-like wonderment isn't the meaning of life, but it might be a life's most noble expression.
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[FONT=Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif]
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[FONT=Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif]After a few weeks I'll take a day off, and reality becomes a high. It's tempting to think in clichés:
I didn't see it coming until it was too late. Now that I have my mind back, I see what a waste this past month has been.
But what has changed? I am less happy, less content. I am neurotic, imagining problems into existence. I am self-absorbed and bored. And these aren't the symptoms of withdrawal. I've always been this way.
So I had to ask myself: why cling to this Freudian super-ego? That seemed to be where all those feelings of disgust were coming from. I had disowned my values, opting instead for the values of the God called Society, still never truly convinced I was at a loss in being high. It was blind faith in ideas I ascribed to some "collective consciousness" designed to shift the burden of choice away from me.
What can the effigy of mass-man make me feel guilty about? Not wanting to attain the impossible perfection of Christ? Not lusting after meaningless commodities? Or perhaps the guilt should come from violating arbitrary taboos and the rules of an illiberal government?
Looking back, it was a joke. I'll always be an ostensibly strange person, a "conscious schizophrenic" -- why not own that? Whatever illusory choices one thinks one has, whatever precarious success one achieves, the question of Life still hovers around them, a series of bizarre vignettes spiraling towards the unseen.
Maybe child-like wonderment isn't the meaning of life, but it might be a life's most noble expression.
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