/lit/ - Literature

Living is such a straining task. Even though one may find many things to be pleasurable, it in no wise makes up for life's peculiar "qualities." For one, every single moment that that one is not distracted by trivialities they are bombarded with increasingly obsessive thoughts about injustices. The heat of their obsession with injustice reaches such a degree that, from time to time, they are not sure what would happen in the moment. A rash decision to enact justice may bring some minor virtue, but it would result in such a negligible effect that in a moment or less the injustices committed elsewhere would be so great as to make the justice undetectable. True retributive and justicial acts require long term planning and an ability to tame, for however long is necessary, one's rage against injustice.
The plan is, principally, to relieve oneself of bearing conscious witness to the grievances of the world, but also to inspire lasting change. The wait is so long. Each and every day one feels like surrendering their self to the peculiarities, until some other injustice comes to their mind and they are forced by will to press on. One cannot allow oneself to be freed without having done anything to save the multitudes from the suffering that they are unwittingly subjected to or subverting the greater sufferings to come by political and technological developments. Living is worthless, and if it can be exchanged for, if not a certain good, an infinitesimally small chance to avert great suffering, then it is morally impossible not to make the trade.
At the same time, one may not be free from their material desire, and is subjected to a still greater torture of uncertainty. Fears pull the mind in a multitude of directions, tearing it apart and further aggravating that desire to "surrender." This is not a fear of being wrong, but a selfish fear of one's own duties. There is in it, a desire to shirk the duty of reducing suffering by having it reduced, so to speak.