the examined life

“I never talk about feelings with anyone but you…because you think about these things…and you’re so wise about them.”

This is one of the most flattering things I’ve heard about myself, because well, the main struggle in my life is my overthinking, so it’s nice to know there’s some sort of an up side to that. However, this doesn’t change the fact that this approach to emotions (thinking rather than feeling them) probably prevents me from experiencing them in the right capacity. But this is perhaps the price I’m willing to pay in order to note happiness felt, that I might preserve it for later, instead of simply being present in the moment, perhaps made greater and more magnificent, unsaddled by concurrent mental analysis, only to be left with fleeting shadows afterwards. Or perhaps it is the price I pay for a kind of insurance premium, against the risk of not knowing where feelings come from, or horror of horrors, feeling wrongly. Feeling content when I should be indignant, jealous when I should be grateful, etc etc.

Ignorance is bliss, how I loathe those words! I’d trade it a thousand times over for knowledge of what is true. Happiness is never the end goal, only truth. And somewhere in the unilluminated shadows, there lurks the fear that the truth will not turn out to be beautiful, nor simple, nor happy at all. Every path, whether the destination be happiness or otherwise, has a burden to bear, though for the truth-obsessed, the seeker is made all the more painfully aware of it.

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