Delusion for the Sake of Happiness

Always been a fascinating topic for me: whether and to what extent self-evolved delusion really is delusion, or just a 'way of living' and to what extent the search for accuracy in all things leads to depression, or even madness.

There are infinitely many accurate ways to view a situation that will yield no progress whatsoever.  There are also probably infinitely many ways to delusionally view things while yielding no progress.

But there are subsets of both of these possibilities that allow progress.  Question is really: what sort of progress are you looking for?   But that question seems subsumed by the first question, which is really how to manufacture higher levels of happiness, flow, contentment, fullness, etc.

Naturally delusional thoughts can yield to harsh setbacks that pop up to snuff out fairy tale desires.

But I don't think seeking accuracy in life, whatever that may mean, is any less susceptible to the setbacks of reality.  Because reality is so huge, seeking accuracy alone is not a good means-test for which direction one should head, that is, emotionally speaking, so that one's life, both internal and external (how we relate to ourselves and to others), is as rich and multiplicitous as possible.

Which can leave us free to make up our internal subjective reality to some extent--whatever extent we are allowed given the confluence of genes and previous experiments.

Which is reality. I.e. most people are delusional, including yours truly.

Part of the hard part of life, though, is allowing others to appreciate and endeavor in their delusion when you know it is a delusion (maybe because you lived it previously).    This is ripe ground for hypocrisy and other assorted nasty but omnipresent phenomena.

Anyway, I've cycled through what I meant to say in the beginning.  Which is mostly that being delusional maybe not be inescapable, but it also may not be so bad.  It IS the norm, that's not an issue.  The question is whether we want to, or can, change the norm.  The answer isn't quite clear.  Mostly because of this, and here's the main point, I promise:

We rarely have structural level information about anything.  We are mere particles, individual pieces of data.

I know, I know, we should endeavor to understand as much as possible through collection of as much data as possible so we can, what: get higher than individual particles.  That is what we do, collectively.  I don't know if we can do it individually.

Searing insights, when they come, are fundamentally lonely things.

I'm sloppy and soft, I know, wallowing, even.  But I'm not kidding myself so much about how hard and unidirectional I am anymore, and that's a good thing.  '

To be continued.

Infinite Reasons to Freak Out

The slice of the universe that I can touch and feel, the one that wraps itself around me and coos into my ear at night (the same one that beats me with a whip, or masticates my steak fat once I've flushed it (and yes I flush it), in some heap of liquid trash somewhere), provides endless stimuli for apprehension, anxiety, and general paranoia.  And this wholly disregards evil third parties--I'm really just zoomed in on those whom I think are reasonable people and can find a way to twist my reality into a grotesque though compellingly real mirror wherein I'm forced to recognize those things about myself that I do not want to realize.

My relative status in all endeavors, for instance.  It is not consolation that everyone's relative status in all endeavors (those who I meet) is low.  I don't desire to be high status in the fame and glamour sense.  I desire to have convenience and to maintain as much singular focus on my own interests as possible.  This is presumably the only reason for pining in such a way.  Interests provide a way to focus (to Flow), wherein life is neither too boring nor too anxiety-producing.

As soon as I establish flow on all days within the confines of a grey cubicle, naturally, there are interruptions.  Interruptions I loathe.  Like a high powered drill deep in the walls of my apartment building when I've just graced myself off to sleep.  Like my cat deciding to utilize the litter box mid-coitus (not hers!, mine--what a weird weird way to imagine my cat!-a contender, it would seem, for some serious fetish sites of which I would never frequent, but which, given that strange mix of non-specific references, I would have lived through in my mind's eye for long enough to write this).

To be straight: I don't desire laziness.  I hate laziness in myself, however evident it has been in my life (I used to have "emotional problems"--but these have been ironed out enough to shine with enough glean to show you that I'm straight, so long as you don't linger).

My ideal world is not 24 hour television, or imbibing in other fashions.  My ideal world is relative challenge and immersion.  I don't need to be structurally analytic, it's just what they taught me in school.  I don't even like it!  By that rationale, though, I must simply make up my own words, which happens not infrequently and forces me into a coffin of shame when they are murmured on unsuspecting ears, often in a light tone of humor. 

This post has no end.  There are no sages in life.  Anyone who tells you they're a sage is trying to impress you and get something.  For themselves.  

I'm slowly learning not to trust.  This compared to previous levels of trust that were wildly out of control.  This compared to a drinking trusting idiot.  This compared to an antique mirror.  This compared to the reality of myself.  This compared to that which I am learning to look at with a detached smear of a glare.  This is it.  

Honesty and Sex. Possible?

How many women fake orgasm?

Men?

Incentive to be honest/lie?  Who?  Well, you tell me.

So, yes, it is a stacked deck already.   And if you're a man, you are an easy lay.

Coincidentally, who is the opposite of a misogynist?