The Stupidity of Man
An Epilogue to »The Art of Vulnerability«
As a separate conclusion to »The Art of Vulnerability«, the interview with Alabaster DePlume released a couple of days ago on Profet, Chief Ideologue Filip Lindström revisits thoughts of love and weakness, in an introvert inspection of fear and ignorance.
I cannot bring myself to breath. To believe that only words, not even spoken but written, has brought me to this state of utter despair, is ludicrous in itself. But never the less, it is true. These letters put together has shaken me, pierced me and driven my body to the point of a terrific tremble.
I roam without sight in the twilight between happiness, whatever that may mean, and malicious melancholia, in a raging war of emotions choosing my insides as their battlefield. The brave soldiers have long since ripped a hole in my chest, which has acted as an open gateway for impressions to enter my world however they please. This has rendered me attentive to the world, seeing it with new eyes that I think I’ve never really utilized before in my life. At least, I do not remember ever witnessing my surroundings as such beautiful sights, the individuals around me as such marvellous creatures, and interactions occurring as so rewarding. The hole in my chest has made me warmer, it has thawed my icy exterior and invited my existence into a new dimension.
But, everything comes with a price, of course. Vulnerability, this word that I’ve thought so much about lately (if »lately« can in fact refer to the past years, or even an entire life time), is by far my greatest fear. I try telling myself that I have beaten it, or accepted it, but it still has a tight grip around my soul, which is why this fresh hole in my chest came as such a surprise to me. It denounced my fear of being vulnerable, dethroned it and imprisoned it in the darkest corner of my subconscious for a brief moment of time. This absolute escape from my basic principles, the code of conduct I’ve been so used to living after, blinded me for what the hole in my chest could mean: A clear target, a medium for anyone to crush me entirely.
Here lies the eternal stupidity of man, within the allowance of emotions and the exquisite power we give them. But, how could you halt a raving storm of intoxicating feelings in its cradle, merely due to the notion that the storm might come back to tear you apart? Am I able to shove the heavenly highs, only to spare myself from the possibility of the devilish lows? It is impossible, at least for me, to deny myself the satisfaction, and that is my weakness. By this, I do not mean to kick myself, I am only pointing out a simple fact: I am weak at times, such as any other human being might be. Saying this is in fact a monumental step for me, admitting my weakness. However, I can still feel shameful about it, which in its core is wrong and disgraceful. And so, the battle riots on.
Sometimes, I want to physically cut off all of my nerve endings, making me incapable to feel. I could isolate myself from anything human, and only devote myself fully to my work, and start the revolution I’m destined to begin. But then again, I am always more set for the revolution of the heart, and I am for ever as stupid as any other human being.