I would venture to guess that 100% of conscious (and functional) humans have, on occasion, entertained thoughts that they would, by no means, consider sharing with anyone else, whether they be shameful secrets, despicable desires, or perverted tastes. I insist that deep down within each of us exists a despicable little pervert just waiting to bring shame upon you during a weak and vulnerable (drunk) moment.
Don’t worry: you’re not alone. We’re all a little sinister. And if Rule 34 serves as any proof, we’re all a little perverted too.
But you should take a small amount of pride in the absurdity of your thoughts. Even if you know better than to act on terrible ideas, the fact that you have them provides a sense of depth and color to your character, because it allows you to glimpse through a window to a universe in which you did act on those ideas. And since you can see yourself in that alternate universe, you have a vague idea of what it must feel like to have committed such a breach of the social code, and thus you can plan your life accordingly with a proper since of pride for the righteousness of your restraint, as well as a proper sense of empathy for those who are foolish enough to engage in shenanigans, whatever they might be.
Your perverted, despicable thoughts and ideas make you a better person, because they make you a more complete person who is better equipped to deal with psychologically adverse situations (and I insist that being a complete person is more important than being a happy person, but that’s a different post for a different time).
When I moved to Texas in August, the stress of establishing a new foundation in a new place made me miserable for about one week. You can only take so many trips to WalMart before losing your mind. But after I got through that week, I feel like my life has been amazing.
I have very few friends, no family, no real social life, and I don’t get out much, and yet I’ve been happier than I feel like I have been for years. Here is why: I have time to think. Before, in my life as an Angeleno, I was never alone. My stream of consciousness was broken before it was started. I was constantly doing things, talking to people, going places, and that precious reflection time we oh so yearn for was gone from my life. I feel like now, I’ve been sorting through a six-year backlog of ideas, and suddenly, I’m a complete human again. I’ve been composing music faster than I ever have; I’ve been writing more short stories than I ever have; it’s fantastic. I feel in tune with myself.
…that is until about two weeks ago, when something horrible happened: I was sitting in my bedroom, and five minutes went by. I realized that, in those five minutes, I did not have a single thought. Not one. My mind was completely empty. And since then, that emptiness has been pervasive – a theme that occurs every so often, maybe once a day, or every other day I’ll catch myself not having any thoughts, as if I’m a fleshy automaton. It’ll hit me when I least expect it: looking at a draft or a word processor, and suddenly my creative momentum halts mid-sentence. I’m writing less. I’m composing less. I’m still happy, but I’m also becoming neurotic.
So ultimately I’m writing to say this: of all the despicable, perverted, and otherwise shameful thoughts I’ve ever had, nothing is as horrible, or rather nothing torments me more than not thinking at all. It’s when you think nothing that you lose the voice that makes you a human being, and what are we worth if not our consciousness? Your thoughts are the only thing no one can ever take from you. Cherish all of them.