THE ART OF BEING THE LAST CHOICE - The Author's Note

An overview of the mass of thoughts that will be explored in the book, with specifically introspective views.

THE ART OF BEING THE LAST CHOICE

The author’s note.

 

Many of the intellectuals and writers I read and studied about, were characterised by the presence of a sort of content dualism in their works. A dualism that was nothing more than a reflection of their inner sense of discomfort; a sort of constant disagreement between two or more poles of emotion that didn’t allow them to live their life under a single and linear path. It occasionally took abrupt turns, left and right, to try and fit into the standard that the mind built up for that precise moment.

A dualism that is not just present in the oldest works, the classics, but also in more recent works such as Romanticism prose and poetry. They usually expressed how reality had disappointed them, how all their hopes had been cut down, one by one, like trees of a forest, to leave space to a visceral emptiness, so strong yet so subtle that could be mistaken for mere pessimism.

However, their imagination saved them from the fatal ending, as to say. What they used to do to overcome this emptiness and dissatisfaction in themselves was create picturesque illusions to which they could anchor for the salvation of their minds, souls and hearts. They traced a subtle veil that separated their desires from what the harsh reality had arranged for them, all achings vanished and the beauty of one’s mind shone brightly and neatly for some time.

This doesn’t last long enough; illusions are bound to fall, one way or another, by the hand of something so real that scares, which is “Reason”. “Reason” is a murderer, many would say; it kills imagination with its endless precise information and all the folkloristic world one had built crumbles down like old medieval castles.

I can’t help myself but relate to this feeling. I am as well always on the road to search for what could make my life beautiful, and less dull; but at the same time, I feel scattered by that showy dark crack that is obsession and the consequences it drags along. That same obsession that brings in me the desire to stay by myself in social situations, to push everyone away and then mourn my consciously made mistakes.

My romantical emptiness is in a way represented by the disappointment for today’s society and the standards it imposes. I feel like humanity has touched a very deep soil with the evolution in the last decades; an evolution that, on the one hand, indeed brought a cutting-edge mentality in some areas, but on the other, I think, particularly restricted people’s creativity and choices.

Don’t get me wrong, society’s standards have always been quite the problem for a long time. Conformation to the standards of the time has always been something human beings are particularly attached to. It morphs their minds, makes some grow, and accompanies others to their downfall. But it brought nothing but desperation in those who did not want to adapt to them, to those who wanted to live their own life and not be the doppelganger of another’s.

The pre-romantics called the desire to act over the critical political situation of the time “Titanism”, which’s undeniable consequence was “Victimhood”, the death of all those hopes that flared up in their souls. The insufferable pain that discerns from this eventually leads to a horrible end, suicide.

My knowledge of these themes is rather narrow, unfortunately, so I might be wrong in my assumptions, but, in my opinion, everyone can interpret literature as they please. As blasphemous as it might be, I believe that, since the very art of words is something undefined that touches the deepest sections of a soul, and being everyone’s soul highly subjective, anyone has a different perception of it. Apart from what is right and what is wrong according to the limits of structure and general meaning, one could internalise the concepts of literature in one’s own manner.

But moving back to the real purpose of this work, one’s dualism could be identified in the general confusion of ideas and constant contradiction in what one says.

I feel a deep love for sociality and people in general, but my empathy has a very narrow ray. I might as well have a rather egoistic way of thinking but it is, in every aspect, an accurate representation of how a person works.

I do feel deep empathy, to the point of tears, only for my own disgrace and for people with similar traumatic experiences. I cannot possibly fathom one’s suffering if I haven’t experienced it in the first place; it is, in my opinion, impossible and incredibly inappropriate. I feel like it might be pretentious to tell someone “I understand your feelings” when I clearly don’t.

Lies and liars are not something I enjoy, even if the lie is told for the sake of making someone feel better. It is better to tell one that you cannot possibly understand what they are going through, but that you would do everything in your power to help them.

My contradiction in this is that I deeply hate humanity. It’s full of individuals corrupted to the core, everyone seems to be in eternal competition with everyone (to win which prize? I wonder…), stupidity is spreading wide like a virus, success is the key to unlocking a vault full of the money that everyone seems to yearn so dearly, politics who are supposed to represent the nations are nothing more than simpletons that occasionally turn into court fools and make more money than hard workers, some jobs are despised and forgotten because they don’t fit in the society’s aesthetics, and I could go on for at least ten pages.

Overall, the flaws that made me hate this world surpass its good traits. And for I have been trying to keep myself out of it most of the time, I cannot help myself but fall into that misery at times; dragged from a sort of inner impulse to that shallowness that makes my skin wrinkle anytime I catch a glimpse of it.

This contradictory way of thinking haunts most of my inner reflections during those sleepless nights I spend writing. It is also built of many other confrontations that would probably get me a diagnosis of some mental illness, which I would gladly avoid.

The title of this work is “The Art of Being the Last Choice” which tells a tale of exactly that one peculiar characteristic of mine: being left out of society due to my rough thoughts about it and my inability to hide them, as well as my voluntary alienation from it. But also, how much I long to live my life to the fullest, feeling all those emotions that one can only experience in a community. Moreover, it tells how no one and I mean not a single soul, ever preoccupied with stepping down their sacred high horse to try and understand me.

Reviews

[Rory Marlow]

I don't know if the paragraphs kept their original separation since i copied and pasted it from word, so don't mind that.