It occurred to me that we humans are a pretty stoic bunch, getting comfortable with the least of routines and then settling into them like moss on a stone.
But once in a while, the moss feels the need of a new moist patch to inhabit. That's where we move on.
Or rather, have the notion of moving on. For we have gotten comfortable you see, even if the stasis of our singularity fuels our flight complex.
So what do we move on to? A new hobby? A new mate? New places to live? Drugs? Death?
Well it seems to me that what we're really after is misery. Take whatever you have and chase the root eventuality of it all, and you'll be left with a sorry excuse to gripe about yourself and force the move.
The motivation arising from this intense ingestion of an inferiority complex gives us a reason to seem meaning, and in that search we find gratification that we may have, for once in our lives, arrived at something worth being comfortable with.
But it never is, and eternal recurrence comes into play.
A new hobby? A new mate? New places to live? Drugs? Death?
But once in a while, the moss feels the need of a new moist patch to inhabit. That's where we move on.
Or rather, have the notion of moving on. For we have gotten comfortable you see, even if the stasis of our singularity fuels our flight complex.
So what do we move on to? A new hobby? A new mate? New places to live? Drugs? Death?
Well it seems to me that what we're really after is misery. Take whatever you have and chase the root eventuality of it all, and you'll be left with a sorry excuse to gripe about yourself and force the move.
The motivation arising from this intense ingestion of an inferiority complex gives us a reason to seem meaning, and in that search we find gratification that we may have, for once in our lives, arrived at something worth being comfortable with.
But it never is, and eternal recurrence comes into play.
A new hobby? A new mate? New places to live? Drugs? Death?
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