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People are strange: They are constantly angered by
trivial things, but on a major matter like totally wasting
their lives, they hardly seem to notice.
There’s not much point in making a deep dive into common methods of denial and avoidance, of biases and fallacies, of psychology or psycho-dynamics; the point is to plow forward, not to master the art and science of plowing. Why sit in a sewer-dungeon plotting your escape when you can just stand up and start climbing? The reason, as always, is fear. It always comes down to fear, but the only reason to succumb to fear is fear itself. Fear of what? Fear of motion, progress, change, line-dancing, whatever. Ego wants to make a great journey while never moving an inch. There are reasons it works the way it works, and it works for most people, but by being here, reading this, you’re saying it doesn’t work for you. Fair enough. It didn’t work for me either.
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"If something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it’s your duty to be reduced to ashes by it. Any other form of existence will be yet another dull book in the library of life."
Charles Bukowski (1920–1994) was a German-born American poet, novelist, and short story writer known for his raw, unflinching depictions of urban life, alcohol addiction, poverty, and the struggles of marginalized people. Raised in Los Angeles, he worked a series of menial jobs before gaining literary recognition in his late forties. His writing, often semi-autobiographical, features a gritty, conversational style and the recurring character Henry Chinaski, his alter ego. Key works include Post Office, Factotum, Women, and Ham on Rye, along with numerous poetry collections like Love Is a Dog from Hell. Despite critical resistance early on, Bukowski developed a cult following and remains a cult figure in underground and countercultural literature.