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Solitude is persistent, I feel comfortable and easy alone (with my cat) on the couch. I’ve had more moments this year where I snuggled in, happiness curling around me, contentment and coziness, hygge in concept and practice.
But it doesn’t stick, it doesn’t last. All it takes is lifting my phone, checking the news, seeing one
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I keep having these thoughts about aging being partly the practice of letting exhaustion override contentment. The more soothing you experience, the less you—- but that also feels like such a false god. There’s no getting beyond it and all comfort means no challenge, no life.
Is that a modernism? I feel somehow as though people in harder times would have sought it, called comfort the peak of their lives. Have we become so fully inundated with capitalism that we place work and suffering over joy (yes, the answer is yes, it’s become so obvious it crept into the mainstream and now even that has been fully co-opted.)
But it doesn’t stick, it doesn’t last. All it takes is lifting my phone, checking the news, seeing one
more
post
I keep having these thoughts about aging being partly the practice of letting exhaustion override contentment. The more soothing you experience, the less you—- but that also feels like such a false god. There’s no getting beyond it and all comfort means no challenge, no life.
Is that a modernism? I feel somehow as though people in harder times would have sought it, called comfort the peak of their lives. Have we become so fully inundated with capitalism that we place work and suffering over joy (yes, the answer is yes, it’s become so obvious it crept into the mainstream and now even that has been fully co-opted.)
