My first post, despite reading the forum for long enough, and that, along with me signing up, is because of this thread and that alone.
Boring? Do you know that seeing this made me sit up, sprightly, and reach forward for the laptop in order to quicken the signing up process that i had instantly decided to follow.
Not that your post warrants anything, or that my reply warrants the cause that it is championing, that it is not boring, and not that i am dismissive of the idea that all is subjective and so it is precisely your opinion of it being boring that allows my view of it being spectacular to exist. Not because of anything but precisely because of everything.
Even while writing this i am tempted to delete it all and Lord knows but you do not how much of it i actually have, yet that is very much the point that he, Dostoevsky, is making.
That constant immediate self reflection, the perverse hindsight that manifests itself as foresight, the empathy and the apathy that accompanies it.
I hate you for writing this, i hate myself for hating you, i don't care that you wrote it, i don't care that i don't care and yet i care that i did.
Through everything i read it feels as though Dostoevsky is the only one who ever understood anything and everytime somebody confirms that they find what he says boring, or that they cannot appreciate his point, i become more alienated.
It is the freedom of mind that never stops and eats away at itself.
Everytime that you find a level, a platform, a moment later it is gone and further down you have dropped through the hole in the floor you have just uncovered. And you keep falling.
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