The Stupidity of Man, part II
By Filip Lindström
A sequel to the study in human stupidity, based on an interview with poet Alabaster DePlume.
My brain is tangled in itself, falling over mashed sentiment, thoughts and emotions stomped together in a chaotic mess. Once again I have let myself go. This is necessary for the allowance of the euphoria that is love, but ever so frightening in these moments of complete internal mayhem. This time, the viciously vain anxiety fights it’s civil war within the confinement of my mind, as opposed to the previous battle zone located in my open chest. Malnutrition and sleep depravation engage the warriors into slaying their own kind, slitting the throats of their brethren in absolute confusion. Desperate screams of extreme anguish echo against the ceiling of the skull, as the makers of these screeching noises attempt to wrap themselves around the matter at hand. The task seems impossible, too grand and too mysterious to solve with the simple instruments presented. This army has faced this foe before, but learnt nothing valuable or useful for another hostile strike.
Realising my being a slave under my own feelings always brings me back to my interview with Alabaster DePlume. In a small, dark room in a Stockholm theatre, we spoke immensely of vulnerability, which we both have had tremendous trouble allowing ourselves. In that moment, when Alabaster asked me what it was like to be me, I said it was fantastic – because it was, and it can be. I felt strong, confident and in control, which I believe was somewhat of a constructed feeling. I indeed was strong, confident and in control, but where did it come from? Strength is wasted on the strong, and Darwin’s theories are not applicable on matters of the heart.
The one true strength is born through solitude, where the self has no shoulder to rest it’s weary head upon. Damned by the stupidity of man, the self is doomed to seek shelter in others, craving this blasted vulnerability in order to complete the task. Furtherly cementing the senselessness of mankind, we look at how worldwide culture violently recommends the absence of loneliness. Preferably, we should pair up in twos, and those of us unfit to succeed in this pairing are mildly seen as outcasts.
The one I adore, she might not love me as I love her. Maybe not even at all. Or she does. I question myself in the matter of how these possibilities matter in any way. I fail in answering my own questioning. After all, who am I to know? I have no knowledge worthy of mentioning, and the one I adore will never end up reading these words anyway. Thus, the questions answer themselves. There is nothing to care about. Nothing to cherish. Nothing to embrace but oneself. In small, dark rooms above theatres in Stockholm, one could be blinded by this truth, mainly because of the inebriation of newfound love. But, when one exits rooms such as those, and face the newfound love to have lost interest, only the warmth and understanding of the self remains. Always yet, a drug as powerful as love bites its teeth deeper into the veins than any other, and the come down is more awful than any other. Here, to be proven again, lies the stupidity of man. The high of any drug removes the quarrel of its absence, and the memory of it allows extreme acceptance. I will continue, because I know what was. I will despair, because I know what is.