The Mind From a Small Room Pt. 2

The Mind from a Small Room Pt. 1

Earlier, we have described a man with hardly any education, who could hypothetically be more intelligent than that of a man who has authored books, if he was able to summarize an entire book with a single sentence. While this would deem the work of the intellectual pointless, in my opinion, if an event such as this were ever to occur, and I believe I have provided small examples of this indeed happening, have not new questions sprung into, for lack of a better word, action? Would the “simpleton” have come to such a simple conclusion if not for the initial work of the intellectual? Perhaps the case was made so strongly by the author, which is, or should be, the goal of an author or writer, to present an idea as powerfully as possible, but it must not be left out that the goal is to, at the same time, present any opposing case to his original idea as strongly as possible, so that the reader is not swindled by wit or creativity, but is left with all necessary information to conclude something on their own merit. If the man-of-action is able to determine the argument of the writer with simplicity, then has this not been accomplished, the goal of the writer, but would he have been able to do so otherwise? Somebody in my “meetings” had recommended to me a book, “You Can’t Make Me Angry” by Paul O. A simple read, this book, and in no way is this meant to be a shot at the author; however, after reading the book in its entirety in one sitting, I tossed the book in a corner along with other things I shall never need to see again. “Waste of time,” I thought. Do not let your emotions run roughshod on you, for feelings are not facts. Congratulations. You have now completed the reading of “You Can’t Make Me Angry.” I must say, though, reader, that the author does admit himself that you can understand the thesis of the book just by reading the title, “You Can’t Make Me Angry.” Fair enough, I suppose, as at least there was an admittance that his work could potentially be a waste of time, which I have decided it was, but because I chose to read it anyway, just who exactly is the dummy? Still, reader, the point stands. The purpose of literature is not to waste one’s fucking time! Certainly, it is not to write something that everybody already knows, or not just something that everybody already knows, but something that everybody is already able to articulate! In this case, specifically, it dawns on me that the author has achieved the goal, albeit in an especially lazy, cheap fashion. Maybe you knew the direction in which that was headed, which if you did, I have wasted your time, and in turn, have failed at executing the writer’s goal. Where are you going? We are not finished yet, reader. Not so fast. The fat lady has not sung.  

A common phrase that has been told to me is that one “cannot think themselves into action,” thus proving, if it is true, that the man-of-action has at least the one-percentage-point advantage over the intellectual, fifty-one over forty-nine; and therefore, being of even just slightly more value. At face value, this phrase seems irrefutable, as I have never lain in bed in some state of depression, thinking of all the things that I should do, and because I have thought them, done them. No, what brings one out of a saddened state is action first, propelling themselves out of bed, choosing to do something, anything, whatever it is. Yes, reader, that does appear to be how it works, but tell me, if one cannot think themselves into action, what happens if one’s thinking is not oriented properly? What happens if one is not thinking straight? The two combatants are now “you cannot think yourself into action” vs. “think before you act.” Does one not end up in dire circumstances, jail, rehab, death even, when they are acting without thinking, and did not the thought, even if just a fleeting one, a blip on the radar, so to speak, of propelling oneself out of bed come first? You agree, now, do you, reader? That one finds themselves in trouble when acting without thinking? The problem, reader, is that it is possible, very possible, that people wind up entrenched in various disturbances precisely because they are, indeed, thinking. Perhaps the phrase should be that one cannot think themselves into right action, but are we absolutely convinced that action cannot come before thought? Am I not purposely manipulating the odds in my favor, because I think of myself as intellectual and not a man-of-action, so that I may justify my existence as more valuable? An imperative question to ask, in order to uncover the hidden human agenda, for truth would never be found if it were not uncovered, but which, unfortunately, lies in the ninth circle of hell. Who dares enter, reader?  

2  

While the analogy of the hidden human agenda lying, at its worst, in the ninth circle of hell is an accurate one, if it is too dramatic, let us think of it in terms of a hotel elevator, with the top floor, or rooftop bar even, being the surface of the agenda, and with the bottom floor, or parking garage, being where the true motives of the human being reside. For example, at this rooftop bar, we see a man interacting with a woman. Naturally, he is trying to present himself in a fashion that suggests that he is not exclusively interested in her sexually, but rather that he has a much deeper, personal interest. Maybe he does; maybe he doesn’t, but you have witnessed this pattern enough times to understand that it is more than likely solely the former. Down a floor from the rooftop bar of the human agenda we go, reader. On the surface, it is just a simple conversation. One floor down, and we have a man with only a sexual interest in the woman. Do you know, reader, that in the context of the hidden human agenda, we may never see beyond the second floor from the top, even though it extends all the way down to the parking garage? It is very possible, and I only know this because I have shamefully done this, that the man is attempting to convince this woman that he is interested, just to evoke a feeling of jealousy in another, an admittedly petty game, but one human’s play over and over nonetheless. Press the button to drop to another floor. Isn’t that so fun to do?

Dostoevsky, who is the inspiration behind most of what you are reading now, had written a short story entitled, A Christmas Tree and a Wedding. I will not spoil it for you, as you should read it for yourself, but a quick synopsis, which, ironically, does not make Dostoevsky the lesser intellectual as I have written about previously, is that a man who was seen chastising a young girl, eventually marries her. It is a peculiar story. I did not know what to make of it or how to interpret it initially, but what I have gathered, is that God only knows what people are up to, God only knows why people choose to do what they do, or why they say what they say. Do you know something, reader? Do you know why I did not like You Can’t Make Me Angry? While what I have said about the book are my true feelings, I did not like the book because I did not particularly like the person who recommended it to me. From the rooftop, a level down. There are many reasons why, although I concocted these reasons myself, I was not a fan of his, but moving down another floor, I had a certain attraction to his girlfriend at the time. The closer we get to the parking garage, reader, the more I wish to recoil and not tell you of such things, but I did not sit behind a keyboard to disguise the truth. If I were to discredit his stupid book recommendation, I would thereby discredit him as intellectual, for the stupid literature he reads is what makes him stupid, and in the end, it is I who would be worthy of the attention from the attractive woman! Oh, how dare you scoff at me! Tell me it is not true that you do not have disgusting motives in the parking garage yourself! Of course, you do, and in actuality, this is a far less revolting example than the others I could provide, but that they do exist is possibly all you need to know. The grander the hotel, the darker the hidden human agenda runs.

Why does a rich man wish to be rich? Why, of course, because you can buy things with money! We are not so naïve, are we, reader? That is only the rooftop bar of the human agenda, and while I am not reprimanding the rich strictly for being rich, as what they have done is worked harder than I, but constructing such a grand hotel can only mean more floors. Yes, indeed, there are exceptions to this rule, but exceptions to a rule do not assemble a pattern, for they are only but exceptions. This, also, does not mean that the floors of a grand hotel are not beautiful in and of themselves. Is it not beautiful that a rich man wishes to become rich to provide for his children a better life than he was granted by his parents, but that it is still, indeed, a floor? Does that not have a sense of bitterness to it, albeit productive? They allow smoking in the most excellent hotels in Las Vegas, you know. Does a rich man not wish to flaunt his riches, in an effort to attract the most attractive, but is this not a floor just as well? Why does one feel the need? Is it not because without such attention, one would feel still alone, that he has become rich for nothing, and is this not a floor?  

Well, reader, all things considered, where shall we start? In the parking garage!? Certainly not! Should it be so, that we inform another of the deepest, darkest motives of the hidden human agenda in an interaction’s inception? Why, one would not be to blame if they were to engage in a dead-sprint away from me if I were to do that! Ah, but am I to only divulge the truth from behind a keyboard, where it is safe? How else am I to construct a beautiful “hotel,” with only a lobby and nothing else, with no means to an end, just an end, a sort of “what you see is what you get” structure, which, by the way, is only something people say in the form of showboating, if I do not exercise the truth in a practical sense? I shall let them run, I shall! For they are only running from the truth, whereas I am not! If I can switch my tone to a storytelling one: “The author breathed a deep, depressing sigh.” I am now only grandstanding myself, the same type of grandstanding that I just buried not seconds ago. Never would I dare disclose the truth in its entirety; however, it would be something if one of us had the stones, would it not? Perhaps, this is all by design, and the only One who is to know of the truth about the hidden human agenda, is nobody but God himself. To be continued . . .