(~simul iustus & peccator~) (lovelies) wrote,
(~simul iustus & peccator~)
lovelies

I just want safely to come undone

Oh hay. I remember why I don't like Systematic.

It's not because the department has managed to round up the most boring, monotonous, unenthusiastic lecturers in the entire University. A former Philosophy major, I have tools against the boring like whoa and mastered the awesome art of sleep-writing years ago. It's taking the crazy of Stoicism and Neo-Platonism and throwing in the choirs of angels just to see if we couldn't make it just a little bit more crazy. It's how I fail to leave it at theoretical when I have to come back to the real world, and how after any other lesson I can still walk out with a lingering respect for my fellow man left.

Watching the formation of the building blocks of Western thought, and the often ridiculous premises at their bases, it makes me apathetic, both on the level of global politics and on many petty aspects of my everyday life. I'll analyse and categorise and dissect myself and everyone around me in a fashion that's entirely passive-aggressive, knowing that I'd be a much happier person if I'd left certain fields well enough alone. I switched because theoretical Philosophy made everything I did and said a goalless social experiment with all the relevance of dance, my monkeys, dance, and these classes are just a forceful rehashing of why I still can't walk to a zebra-crossing without random thoughts on the Prolegomena and categorical imperatives.

Look, you did that. You went and did that. But I know it's just Fairburnian object relation or classic Adlerian ego-compensation of consciously cultivating the posture of cert-- Oh, wait, that's what I'm doing now. I know a lot of fancy theories that all come down to how you're just as afraid of me as I am of you. And oh look, what you did affected me. Hurt me, pissed me off, what ever, what you did made me feel. But I know it's just a protopathy, and if I suppress the urge to react and keep from acting on it, I'll be a better person according some wanker who once upon a thousands of years ago had way too much time on his hands. So I'll say and do nothing. Except when I do. And oh look, you think that. You have an opinion, and that's great. But what if you knew that the only reason you think like that is because Jean Calvin's mom caught him masturbating in his adolescence, and if Jean Calvin's mom hadn't caught him masturbating in his adolescence, the very basic princips of your world view and sense of self might be entirely different?

And does knowing the foundations and structures of these opinions really make a fuck of a difference? And the point of having any, on anything. Choosing between choices that are before us just because we're playing along, because we really can't not. And knowing that whether or not my stances are any more educated than yours, they're better just for the sole reason that they're mine. And, you know, yours are yours, but they don't really matter, because they're not mine. And I have to take on a role to function - when I even function - with other people, because high school Social Psychology flipped some switch in me that's just become a fountain of cynicism.

This is why textual analysis and translation are my bag. Systematic makes me want to stab my brain and destroy all mankind for its inherent absurdity. Not stupidity, absurdity.
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