I am living in a swirl of unreflected moments and overwhelming, uninspiring fragments. I have no direction and still less motivation amidst it all. From every quarter of my insides comes the frantic call for a time of deep reflection.
There is no reflection, however, despite life not being devoid of undirected moments. Reflection, after all, breaks an unwritten rule about the maintenance of industry at critical junctures; there is no allowance to be made for transcendental silence, for unexplained pauses at the heart of the maelstrom. What is demanded by all, including one’s own conscious psyche, is continuous, vigorous action bordering on madness—to match the madness of one’s surrounding context, even if each intensification of industry fosters a coincident intensification in insanity.
The fact that flailing about can be less conducive to swimming than floating does not, for some reason, enter into the moral calculation.
Drowning in the interest of industry’s triumph over accidental sloth is, after all, a most moral thing to do.