The Fall And Rise Of My Philosophy

You may be aware from my previous blog posts that I’m having something of an internal crisis. I have diagnosed myself with depression, love, rejection, being a c*#t, but this morning as I was reading a translated excerpt from Plato’s ‘Republic’ and was reminded of something Bertrand Russell had said in ‘A History of Western Philosophy’. What Bertrand Russell exactly wrote alludes me at the present, as I do not have copy of the book to hand, though to paraphrase in a Bayesian fashion. It related to the nature of philosophy itself. As I remember it, philosophy regards contemplating the beauty in everything, whilst simultaneously being aware of its ugliness; If something is considered beautiful without consideration of its ugliness then that consideration is merely an impoverished opinion.

My recollection may be totally off the mark with that reference, but it sounds right (pull me up if I’m wrong; I don’t mind being corrected). Anyway, it got me thinking about my current evaporated confidence, love’s loss lament, and self pitying response to rejection. This seemed particularly relevant to me because I’ve always been a philosophical fella. Perhaps the fact I don’t have many friends, apart from being a hermit, is due to my naturalised and instinctive response to lyrical waxing, which is to constructively counter with an opposing viewpoint in a similarly enthusiastic manner. That being said, this counter is only a subdued and externalised version of the more robust toing-and-froing within me; I do bite my tongue quite often if I feel an opposing viewpoint may be perceived as antagonism or mistaken for a personal attack. Regardless of this, I consider everything, want to consider everything, and want to know something if I haven’t considered it yet. In some respects, this has the affect of making me a little risk averse or inactive.

I can’t remember anything or anyone being able to bypass this intuitive and seemingly innate reaction in me except for one person. The wonderful young woman whose scent in my memory still elicits happiness and extreme sadness. I think back to telling her how beautiful she was to me. Naturally, I knew full well this was my only subjective view, as it was only me I speaking for. And this morning, as I remembered Mr. Russell, I was reminded of her saying “That’s just your opinion.” Those words are what are playing on my mind now. It was an opinion. Though it wasn’t an untruth; she is beautiful. I wonder if I was being disingenuous to call her beautiful. I wonder what the alternative might have been. You are beautiful, though there are others who would say you are not…? That seems a very unsatisfactory thing to say, especially when I also consider that one of my modi operandi, apart from wanting to be with her, was to help her gain confidence to realise she was more beautiful, inside and out, than I or anyone else could ever conceive. These exclamations of her beauty were all genuine. I was only disingenuous in as much as I wasn’t explicit in putting forward the cases of consumerism, objectification, marketing, and her own self doubt. Despite my philosophic, I feel I would have been a very poor love interest, and let’s not mince words, a complete bastard, if I had dug the spurs in and whipped those malign wild horses I already saw trampling her psyche.

I know I was selfish though. I knew logic and the counter view would allow me a good chance of helping her fight and win against the subjugation of consumerism, objectification, and marketing; but my involvement with her self doubt was always a losing battle. The more beautiful she was to me, the more I antagonised her self doubt. The indoctrination of consumerism, objectification, and marketing were adopted foreign concepts, yet the self doubt was her creation. By extension, every time I countered her self doubt I feel I undermined her. I was a liar in her eyes; I was unreliable; my logic and motivation was flawed. That catch-22 seems perverse to me; the one woman on this world, and in my life thus far, that I have ever wanted to know just how beautiful she really was, and I could not, cannot, without destroying any love or respect she might have once had for me. Would I have been better to never have told her? It’s selfish of me, but I don’t think I could have lived not telling her. I hope I will be the martyr. I hope I sacrificed myself so that someone else can help her to know. I am part of a process. I hope that it is process of distilling her self belief. She is beautiful. I want her to be happy… Still, I wish I had been the one.

Anyhow, somewhere in all this I had begun to believe that my relatively well-constructed philosophy was only opinion too. It wasn’t; I always knew the ugliness within her. That ugliness was her self doubt. Her self doubt gave her hopelessness, self pity, anxiety, helplessness, sadness, fatigue, and mental and physical pains. Her self doubt’s ugliness made her see ugliness. Beyond that ugliness, there were only the flaws endemic to all our species. A species that is flawed and beautiful and beautifully flawed. She was special to me. She still is. She is distinctly beautiful. During the time our lives crossed she became all my thoughts. The philosophy of being which I created, and become personified with, was wholly devoted to her. That is when my philosophy became degraded to opinion. That which she regarded as opinion became naturalised through our interactions to be considered opinion by us both. This naturalisation was facilitated by my not wanting to antagonise her. I became complicit in my own philosophical outlook’s demotion. I spent too much of my energy forlornly fighting her unbeatable self doubt that I neglected to continue training the prize fighter within me.

Now, I suffer that ugly self doubt too. Yet, thanks to Plato and Bertrand Russell, I feel another piece to that hurled jigsaw puzzle has been found. I keep astounding myself at my naivety. It is foolish of me to think any one disclosure or vivification will result in an epiphany. I am impatient for this awful malaise to end. However, I must be patient. Patience in its widest conflation, from idleness and dormancy to humility and passivity, used to be a massive part of my philosophy. Unfortunately, this conflation has welcomed depression and endurance into its ranks once more. Nevertheless, you can’t force knowing the knowledge that is unknown. I’m grateful for finding another piece to that scattered puzzle.

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One Response to The Fall And Rise Of My Philosophy

  1. Pingback: Love’s Fiction | TheArtisanTheory

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