The great poet Charles Bukowski was born on this day in 1920. 
“…great writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the best part for paper.
good human beings save the world
so that bastards like me can keep creating art,
become immortal.
if you read this after I am dead
it means I made it.”
Ugliest Poet on the Planet. But I’m sure glad he made it. And now he’s one of the Ugliest Immortals—yay! and rock on!
What ever happened to all of those fidget things that everyone had? You held them between your thumb and index finger and pushed down for it to spin. Continuous action was supposed to give you something to do. When you just wanted to fidget a bit. Some of the toys became quite elaborate and they were everything from a flying bird to a simple top. And a variety of colors of course. Everyone had one. There was even a bit of fidget envy. And then they disappeared. It was one of those things that is gone and you don’t notice until sometime later. And then it’s not because you want it. It’s just a stray thought that ambles in and shrugs itself off again. So where are they all now? It was years ago and there were millions of them. Maybe there’s a giant warehouse somewhere dedicated to the sole purpose of giving discarded fidgets a last resting place.
Loneliness isn’t the physical absence of other people, it’s the sense that you’re not sharing anything that matters with anyone else. If you have lots of people around you – perhaps even a husband or wife, or a family, or a busy workplace – but you don’t share anything that matters with them, then you’ll still be lonely. ~Johann Hari. Book: Lost Connections
Some company, that’s all. But not with one who’s a contrarian. Or just plain dim. The companion must be one to suit ones ideals. One to whom the idea of a verbal challenge is not only understood, but welcomed. Ah yes, the simple things in life that were never promised but are worth all the rest of the promises, kept or broken.
With every increase in the degree of consciousness, and in proportion to that increase, the intensity of despair increases: the more consciousness the more intense the despair.* ~Søren Kierkegaard
(Book: The Sickness Unto Death https://amzn.to/3S0ho70)
*Now this sentence really needs to be parsed, not for grammar of course, but for meaning. Be careful of the use of “consciousness.” In my experience there are more levels to consciousness itself so as to urge caution in its application of use. (Forgive, please, I’ve been reading dear Søren) It is so very easy for me to slip into an accent, a tone, a language.
To think this through and apply your own experience, I do believe you will find the statement true.
And I do believe he is also saying that anyone who is conscious at all, aware in the slightest, will suffer the equal counter-part of Despair.
And that makes for an “Oh dear!” if anything does.
Now, that accepted, we must (most likely anyway) also accept that any one would want to be relieved of this Despair.
Note: Despair, as without Hope. Not Depression. Not Melancholia. Not Down. Not Sad. Despair—its very own category.
And therein lies the rub. The conflict begins. In order to resolve the situation I’ll needs must read a bit more of our dear philosopher. Suffice it to end here, for today. But for those of us who suffer, and that means (most) everyone according to SK, I’m sure there will be an interest in the answer. Stay tuned!
Maybe it’s time for a little bit of humor. It doesn’t seem as if we’ve had any for a while. So here we go, a comment by Neil Gaiman in response to a reader’s question.
Posted by “For Reading Addicts” from Neil Gaiman books.
I love this type of humor where you’re led down the path of the unexpected: the tatoo and lost arm, and then the further twist to the very unexpected: the subset of authors!
Writers Ink—Writing and Stuff 