personal ethical crisis, pt. 1
following brought on by a week of watching fora.tv:
there are always periods where i am deludedly, ecstatically content with life — in the most general meaning, as if my particular happiness is the uncelebrated instantiation of all human joy; that discussions are the abstract but crystalline probing into some sacred concreteness where these discussions of terms like “the nature of [x]” and “future” happens and therefore stays. over drinks or in the park.
if history were a mirror, and if i peer into it sometimes in the unabating night, i can’t help thinking that my thoughts are encased in obfuscated language that does nothing but shield myself from where their realities are actuated. that words encase the horror that every item and action of mine inevitably connects to the suffering of someone else: that each small pleasure will be multiplied to be pain, in a system of inconsolable equations, coupled and nonlinear, as pleasure always is against suffering. so then it is a lie of sorts, to live the half-aristocratic half-acetic academic life, in moral indifference and at the same time to be the advancement of human kind. what does that mean? what do you do? i think i just blackout the mirror.
