What a perplexing aspect of human nature it is, this relentless pursuit of control despite being acutely aware of our inherent vulnerability. The bitter truth of our inability to fully control our lives is a pill so bitter that we spare no effort in attempting to swallow it, often resorting to satisfying our selfish desires for dominance. In the profound words of Dostoyevsky in his magnum opus, "The Brothers Karamazov," we engage in self-laceration, a deliberate and emotionally destructive act upon ourselves. This internal struggle, whether to perceive the world as predetermined or as an existential journey, finds a peculiar resolution in self-inflicted pain. By consciously choosing actions that lead to despair, we paradoxically seize a semblance of control.
Yet, what value does this control truly hold? Those who attain it often find themselves regretting its grasp, while those who aspire to it grapple endlessly in its pursuit. What folly it is to sacrifice one's own happiness in pursuit of a fleeting illusion of control! It seems as though only the seemingly 'unintelligent' among us have deciphered the code of existence, The code of giving precedence to heart over mind and in doing so avoid burning in the fire of despair and depravity every single day.
At times, I ponder whether we are unduly harsh on ourselves. Our self-imposed moral compasses compel us towards these acts of self-laceration, convincing us that we are undeserving of anything but pain. The slightest deviation from this self-righteous path burdens our conscience with the weight of perpetual agony, a punishment we believe ourselves worthy of and duly administer upon ourselves. A punishment that we believe we rightfully deserve and that we inflict on ourselves to the degree we deem appropriate. Giving ourselves that sense of control and justice. But who are we kidding?
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