Thursday, November 25, 2010

Because Happiness Isn't Always Defined by Endorphins

What if you're a sadist or engage in BDSM? Will you ever actually admit it? Polite table manners say no. The few things not subjective in this world are definite emotions; hate; desire; confusion, etc. So what's my point, really? I've just finished reading Lolita. I liked it. It's similar to The Great Gatsby: it's trying to capture moments in time, of the past (lucky for me, I have several cameras, although I can't live those moments again). Ironically, these enduring characters that try to take the past into the present are going to last for many more lifetimes to come. Why? When they inevitably fail their quests we are struck with a heartbreaking longing.
Is it because we relate? That's partly so.
Maybe it's because these characters are striving for something that the human condition implies but never directly expresses: happiness.

Anybody can say that Humbert Humbert is a sick freak, for loving nymphets. But his happiness is no better than mine if my ultimate goal was to start my own business and become successful. Sure, I might have to stab a few backs to gain corporate deals and whatnot, but hey: it's nothing personal, it's business. Is my happiness more 'honourable' that his? No, I don't see it that way. Honour is just a label. I cause less hurt in my ultimate goal, therefore it is more probable that Humbert Humbert should burn in hell because his happiness violates nymphets. What was my point again?
...
Ah, yes. Happiness. Subjective. Elusive as fuck. Nothing more, nothing less. Very short-lived, but very much much worth it...whatever "it" is.

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