Sustaining a lively and unadulterated mind requires a practice of self preservation from any element of literature that might pose as a threat to the naivety of everyday life. The real struggle lies not in your pursuit for meaning or reason, rather it lies in keeping your demeanor and social display firmly eschewed from your beliefs; unless you wish your ideas and thoughts to devour your sanity as a whole. A distraught conduct leads the individual vulnerable and perilously exposed. An attempt to exhibit firm control on one’s actions must therefore, be practised diligently.
A societal manner best adopted would be hence to engage the listener in an essentially hollow yet witty chat regarding the latest gossip, carefully circumventing any topic of politics or social perils. Much like George Orwell’s oblivious society in his novel 1984, (but mind you don’t let anyone know the novel has mentally affected you, the simple excuse of casual reading should suffice if anyone seems curious) one cannot trust the people around to fully grasp and comprehend the grave nature of our current situations. Petty conversations about celebrities and fashion should be more than pleasing to ears that know nothing of the sound war artillery makes.
The question then arises, how does one successfully spot an intellectul among a crowd of sheep. In a desperate attempt to find a mind with whom one can share their darkest theories with, one forgets that everyone has a specific threshold for darkness. One person’s level of darkness might be enough to drive another into madness. One risks the hazard of being responsible for stealing the spring from the step of their listener by rambling about reality. One risks surpassing the listener’s threshold for dark thoughts in their desperation to let theirs go.
The best way to go about, therefore, would be to take turns with one’s mind. Daylight means you control your body and actions. Night time is when, in the safe confines of your room, away from people, you may let the darkness take over. A pen and a paper should be present always on one’s side for when things get out of hand and regaining control of one’s concious mind seems a struggle. There lies a beautiful strength in endurance.
It’s strange how we find beauty in destructivity. The night sky intrigues us. Trillions of magnanimous balls of burning gas capable of frying anything even a few million meters from them intrigue us. Sun sets make us feel at peace. A ball of fire large enough to fit a million earths, close enough to be witnessed from our tiny planet, inching further closer every passing decade, capable of boiling all land, makes us feel at peace. The moon, the beautiful, cold, lifeless, lightless, barren moon overwhelms us with emotion on a lonely night. The vast, never-ending, land-engulfing, moody sea brings us serenity. The beautiful sea that deceives you with the many colours it wears as times of the day change, should you discover what it truly looks like. The same sea with the potential of dragging you into a wet, painless embrace of sweet sweet freedom. Yet we lay in the sand and let our feet touch the shore and pick shells from its floor. We watch the sun set into it and we watch as it bleeds into the sky and we watch it bleed into the waters, adding another colour to the palette of nature. We watch the night sky imprinted onto its surface, distorted by the ripples created by waves that can engulf an entire city from the slightest nudge of a plate.
We find beauty in all of this. We find ways of incorporating it into poetry and art that we create. We define it in ways that best suit our interests. We calculate and measure it using systems that we pride in creating from raw thought.
Because accepting the meaninglessness of our existence in a gloriously self-expanding and self-sufficient universe prickles at our prides as flawed human beings.
Because for once we want to feel like we have control, like a child sitting amidst skilled architects showing off the fortress he made from building blocks. Or a drug addict thinking he controls what he feels, all the while rotting inside, enslaved to the withdrawal symptoms of what he calls “control”.
We think we are entitled to celebrate what we believe to be rightfully ours, drunk on delusions of being the sole heirs to an entire universe. Giving in to self-imposed falsely created megalomania.
We find beauty in destructivity because arrogance blinds man worse than ignorance.