Dark Attic

Floating left, floating right, all its movements lit by dim, flitting twilight.

Whether it be endless dalliance or narrow lunacy, ordinary man has no greater vice than his personal preference. Such is the nature of his psychology that he convinces himself that what he does is what he wants. The worm of belief has crawled into the center of what he is, making him believe that the interests of the parasite are in fact his own. He has no true identity other than ingrained inclinations, tendencies to wander high or low purely by the habitual rhythm of a million thoughts, emotions and sensations imposed on him by what is popular amidst the clans of contemporary culture.

Shadows stir old patterns and he falls day by day through the grooves of what he is accustomed. What is new often strikes friction against the channeled river of what has become his life, and so he avoids them in favour of what has long been antiquated. The same shops, the same nature of people, all the same scenarios repeating ad infinitum. The tools at his disposal, ripe with clever potential and wholehearted verve, languish and stagnate as trinkets stored in a dark attic, never let out for air or the vitamins of the sun. His thoughts keep him from thinking of them, or even knowing that they exist, and he compromises himself to fit the story that has been written on the pages of mediocrity.

Most men will find such words negative and cynical, but they do not realize what potential is of their lot if what they have become were to be subordinated for the sake of real sweat-steeped dreams. A man can be made to do remarkable things if, ironically, he were made a slave to those intentions. Of course a great many terrible things can occur all the same should the design be of a nefarious spirit. Yet a disapproval of the one ought not insist on omitting the other, allowing us to — as we see in plain sight around us — compromise and settle for watered down intensity. It is a fallacy to believe that moderation is a virtue and acts of supposed extremity a vice. This is the lie that sounds so true that it is considered commonplace wisdom without recourse to any appeal.

A man’s preferences, should they weigh him to the left, will cause him to live a leftward life, predictable and starved of novelty. He may convince himself otherwise, but his life is such as one would expect a soul to purchase off of the celestial shelves of the world high above. Observed from an elevation, his whole nature can be calculated like a machine with wires and gears which can only go in so many directions. His preferences, his fixed personality, having no resemblance to the nature of his earlier infancy, glues him into a very sticky situation to which he slumbers, murmuring all the while that he is awake. It is as sad as it is strange and humorous to find that men of the present time find themselves all running through invented rat-raced mazes, too busy and worn out from tensions to wonder if playing the game is even sane.


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