Cynicism generally aims in the direction of truth, but it lacks the range to reach it. Cynicism’s overcorrection, the Pollyanna placebo, demoralizes. So instead, we push through the lazily mechanistic and the anodyne cowardly thoughts, to face the sun.
Nothing stops me from turning my back on everything and henceforth surfing lively comment threads while drinking myself to death. It’s comforting, knowing that I can leave it all behind. But that would be an anxious, irremediable slide.
I met a man whose wife contradicts everything he says. It is clear that he had never told her, in private: you need to shut your mouth. The imprisoned modern men forgot that they don’t have to live like this.
The immortals on Olympus were superior to us by every measure, yet they envied mankind for the one thing we have, that they wanted — our capacity to feel. For men and women, it all hangs on a thin string. That makes the dark more terrifying to us, and the cold glass of water more quenching.
I faced the sun over the three-day poolside weekend. The tendrils of joy will live in their hearts for the next eighty years. This didn’t just happen by itself. I don’t have the luxury of letting my attention float away like a balloon.
What do you think about life?