The 7th of December Wish -- How I Retain Hope In Loneliness

"See what we see, feel how we feel, and you are considered sane, A communal sanity. See otherwise, you are declared insane" -- John Duran

(2023 note: Even though this article has been revamped, I stayed loyal to its original narrative from 2021).

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(Birthday Subcategory Directory)

(Philosocom's Subcategory Directory on Potential and Hope)

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On the 7th of December, one of the few days left of this year, I'll finally be 24. The individual number itself holds little significance for me, but as the years accumulate, I can't help but yearn for a sense of fulfillment. Yearn, a feeling of having reached my full potential. It's not a desire to end my life, but rather a longing for a state of complete peace and tranquility, a metaphorical "eternal rest" where my work will finally be complete.

Is there a distinct sentiment that accompanies each phase of aging? For me, I still feel like I'm 18, the age at which I published my first book. I recall that year a slight of disdain. At that time, I was still naive about the philosophical world.

The school instilled in me great expectations for my future as a philosopher. Even the headmistress herself approached me and declared, in front of my parents, that I would become the "greatest philosopher of this century." Little did she know about my contemporary competitors, some less renowned, others far more celebrated.

The period between 18 and 24 was quite a distressful one, and no one had prepared me for it, despite the supposed purpose of education being to equip students for the "real world." The sheer amount of hostility I received simply because I dared to voice my thoughts, was overwhelming.

School failed to warn me that people would be quick to tear me down due to their opposing views or negative perceptions of my work.

I was "promised," for lack of a better term, a glorious reality as an adult, one where people would eagerly consume my books and I would achieve widespread recognition. Alas, despite publishing seven books (and a series of novellas I plan to publish in the future), my works seem to have fallen on deaf ears. Perhaps this is the consequence of my self-imposed isolation, my great affinity for solitude.

There I am, akin to a child on vacation, absorbed in my writing and entertainment, seemingly oblivious to the world around me, detached from everyone and everything besides my contemplations like a grey philosopher. I receive scant acknowledgment, my existence largely unnoticed by society at large, not necessarily having to work because my personal future is ensured by the Rubinshtein Clan...

While I've grown accustomed to my reclusive existence, no one has ever warned me of the profound loneliness that can accompany the life of a philosopher, especially in this era of fleeting attention spans. I write into the void, share into the void, and, worst of all, think into the void. I observe myself and others, comparing myself on purpose in order to understand my strange place in this world. It is very hard for me to relate to most people as they find difficulty in relating to me. Their conversations and jokes bore me the same as my thoughts and jokes confuse them, although I find both easy to understand.

Every day is a battle to be recognized, to be heard within the seduction of social media's casino-like mazes. The struggle to capture attention is ruthless, to convince countless people to pause their anxious, fruitless quest for gratification, and engage with glorious article empire. They can easily abandon their pursuits, even for a few minutes per day. But their hedonism stands in my path for increasing philosophy's relevancy in their eyes.

Gaining readership is a difficult task, not only due to the abundance of competing writers but also because of the overwhelming array of distractions. Social media applications and their unforgiving notifications, effortlessly alter attention away from the joy and benefit of the written word.

Reading, after all, is a cognitively demanding activity that, for some, employs a considerable amount of mental effort, particularly when delving into philosophical discourse. Not to speak, of course, of the reflective thinking that one may need to be in, if they desire to optimally understand what they just read.

Despite these challenges, I do not believe that reading is close to extinction, the same as I don't believe philosophy's "dead". Your continued engagement with my life's work, for instance, testifies the enduring appeal of blogs and books alike. The fact that philosophy can save lives through meaning in a shallow existence, justifies the moral debt I am paying to this field... for saving my own life.

While my faith in humanity may be prone to reduction, it remains unclear whether the allure of instant gratification will ultimately extinguish the flame of intellectual curiosity, and, of course, many people's need for depth in a shallow, financially-materialistic world. Despite being only 24 years old, I sense that my time has not yet come, assuming the universe follows a deterministic path, although that notion is problematic. Despite growing increasingly tiring with time, my continued youth suggests that I have more to write, create, and contribute. While I yearn for rest, the time for it has not yet arrived.

I aspire for my life to be an accomplishment, and that's why I long for old age, not as a means to end my existence, but as an indication of fulfillment. It's similar to a worker anticipating the completion of their shift, not as a desire to return home, but as a longing to make sure they finish the job. Do you notice the distinction?

While my employment as an office drone may have been brief, my entire life has felt like an extended, tiring endeavor, as it does to this very day. I am a workoholic. The relentless pursuit of sharing my voice with the world, demonstrating my relevance and that of my philosophy to those who may disagree, has been exhausting.

It's not just the writing, but all life's endeavors that weigh me down. I eagerly await the eternal rest that will proclaim, "You have successfully pursued your goals and contributed to the world in this life. Now, rest for all eternity."

I am not driven by sadness, anger, or suicidal thoughts. My aim is clear: to create a lasting legacy, worthy of succession. And what is the ultimate completion of this legacy?

It is indefinite. My death will be but a phase in this empire's history. My desire to reach old age is equally strong as my desire to make the most of my time here, granting me the legitimacy, in my own eyes, to leave this world with little regret. While I could cease at any moment, it would squander the potential of my future. And I live to work.

My ambition for December 7th is to permenantly reume my work, contributing in the most meaningful way possible until my existence ceases. Only then will I have the justification to halt my writing -- when I will be incapable to work by death.

I am doing all of this to retain my sanity in the lonely existence of being, by default, different than most of humanity. It is my moral duty to remain sane, so sane I will be. In the name of myself, of the Rubinshtein Clan, and of Philosocom.