In internet years, I'm an old man now (mid 30s).
The older I get, the less novelty there is for me in the world.
Novelty is what gives life its vivacity, it's what forms the substance of our memories, it is the ether within which our spirits move. We seek it and crave it, without it we die, time begins to flow faster, we accelerate towards our death, towards the great final novelty. And I mean real novelty, not sampling "delightful burned chicken ass" in Taiwan. Novelty cannot be consumed. It is too bright, it hurts too much, it scars us, it burdens us. It scrapes away pieces of us until nothing is left. This is the reason all memories are sad. Sad memories are sad, but happy memories are sad too in a way, because they remind us of the pieces of ourselves that have been lost. Novelty is our lifeblood yet it contains within it the seeds of our own nemesis and our own undoing, for each touch with it ages us, like flying too close to the sun/god/burning bush. That's our curse as mere mortals, we have a limited capacity for it before we are burned away.
In the absence of novelty, I no longer see magical instances and divine phenomena but rather patterns of repetition. How much magic is there in the world for the clear eyes of a child? How much romance is there in the world for the overflowing heart of an adolescent? How much adventure is there for the grandiose mind of a young man?
A person who was so interesting to me in my teens now I recognize as just a manifestation of a type. And I see this type and that type everywhere. And they all say the same things, wear the same expressions, cry the same tears, laugh the same laugh. Nietzsche would say that although he has heard the same laugh from a thousand different throats, it's still the most beautiful laugh he has ever heard. I just can't commit to that level of masculine virility, I've already waned, I already have one foot out the door.
Love is an obsession with a person. But what happens when people no longer exist? There's nothing left to love. And without love, without passion, there's nothing in this world to believe in, thus no reason to engage with it. Even if it were mechanistically possible for me to become more comfortable, there's still no payoff in doing so. I can't fall in love.
So as you can see, my problem really is that I love people too much and too seriously, and that's why I don't talk to them.
Well, that's how I feel. I've contradicted myself enough for one post. Maybe one day I will realize I am full of shit, but I think not.
Here are the words of your second-greatest countryman on a theme not exactly the same but closely related -
The pain of life that haunts our narrow way
I cannot shed with this or that attire
Too old am I to be content with play
Too young to live untroubled by desire
What comfort can the shallow world bestow?
Renunciation! - Learn, man, to forego!
This is the lasting theme of themes
That soon or late will show its power
The tune that lurks in all our dreams
And the hoarse whisper of each hour
Yet each new day I shudder when I wake
With bitter tears to look upon the sun
Knowing that in the journey he will make
None of my longings will come true, not one.
To see the tendrils of my joys that start,
Cankered with doubts, the mind's self-conscious tares
To feel creation stir a generous heart
Only to fail before life's mocking cares
And when soft night has shrouded all the West
My anxious soul will beg her peace supreme
But still I lie forsaken, for my rest
Is shattered by the wildness that I dream
The god who dwells enthroned within my breast
Can stir my inner vision's deepest springs
But he who binds my strength to his behest
Brings no command to sway external things.
Thus life has taught me, with its weary weight,
To long for death, and the dear light to hate.
- Faust to Mephistopheles, from Goethe's Faust