Inherent Deceit

If lying is a sin, then the act of living is hopelessly evil.

This statement may seem markedly cryptic and desperately cynical. If you, the reader, feel that such an accusation is in fact a blasphemous falsity, then I urge you to discontinue reading. Believe me... there's much more to come.

Consider this: why is it that the more "insightful" a piece of art is, whether it be literary or visionary, the more it is deemed revolutionary? What exactly is it revolting? Furthermore... how is it possible for truth to be a revolt against society? Isn't this in itself proof of the deceitful nature of humanity?

The fact that we consistently praise innovation that is nothing more than the truth is so obviously self-incriminating as to be fairly ridiculous. It is no different than if Bob were to approach Jim and tell him that he is a living, breathing person, and Jim were to react with surprise and praise Bob for observing such a thing. Just the term used so frequently, revolutionary, is an argument in favor of the aforementioned theory. To revolt is to renounce allegiance or subjection. Renouncing allegiance... by stating the truth. Such a statement, in a logical sense, invites a sense of trepidation at the state of humanity. Because if, by stating the truth, the artist is renouncing allegiance... then the only logical conclusion would be that they are distancing themselves from a lie. A lie that has become common knowledge and accepted as truth. This idea is so broad in its nature that I cannot fully indulge in its hypnotic hold on my sense of reasoning (for fear that I will be held prisoner by my computer screen and keyboard). Nevertheless, the obvious implications are depressing. In fact, I believe that it is this inherent nature of ours, the reflexively simple act of deceiving ourselves in an attempt to make it easier to deceive the world, that makes depression the virtual base on which we construct our personalities.

The common view of a successfully pleasant life is never one that involves solitude. Yet, our entry and exit into this world of consciousness are both markedly isolated events. So then, why is it we cannot stand to be alone on the journey between birth and death? Guilt. Shame. Fear. Fear that, in being alone, we will have to face the contradiction between what society perceives and what actually exists. Depression is usually accompanied by low self-esteem. But, for self-esteem to fall from grace, there must be a catalyst. When we are alone, our brains do not cease to function. Thought is mechanical; automatic. Solitude forces a state of self-analysis, and brings the repressed truth to the forefront. Once a person fully realizes that they are not who everybody thinks they are, even in the most minute details, it is inevitable that their sense of self will seem to be nothing more than a masquerade. I see this as the true explanation for humanity's need for companionship. Love is a by-product of man's congenital inferiority complex. Life and the act of living becomes such a web of intertwining realities that experiencing it alone, for many people, is a path leading to inevitable insanity. In essence, the idea of love is neither selfless nor pure. In fact, true love is probably the deepest form of egocentricity known to man.

Now, the implications of my statements are grounds for further discussions on human nature. On our intrinsically selfish nature. Our utter incapability of true selflessness. Truly sardonic topics. Most readers will either wholeheartedly agree with my views or be as unflinchingly dismissive as possible. There's not much room for fence-standing. But, as in many of my other ponderings, my intentions are not as wry as they seem. I have said it once, and I say it again: I am an advocate of love. I am not, however, a supporter of idealistic notions of romance. To me, truth is much more refreshing than the constant lies that society feeds us. It is our nature to lie to ourselves so that, in turn, we may be relentless in our retelling of these lies to others. This is not a singular flaw that should add insult to the already pressurized act of existence; rather a statement of one of the most fundamental blemishes on the beautiful face of human existence. I do not wish to induce depression with this work, just to state the obvious. However revolutionary that may be.