Where has gone the passion?

I know that I had deliberately led myself onto this path, chosen it over another more lucrative one; and so ought to not be distressed by any shadow of regret, but rather forge ahead confidently and full of gusto. I know that I have warned myself of the perils of this path, of the dusky future contained in its bends and stretches, and further paid no heed to those who have warned me all the same. So certain I was then of my passions, and so brilliantly they shone in me, that I deigned to deny them their proper habitat. I thought those passions were immortal – something resting at the very core of my heart, and which shall never extinguish, neither by lassitude nor by the emergence of another eloquent attraction.

Ah, but now they have sunken into unknowable depths, and I find myself frequently questioning the purpose of my study. I peer into the distance and imagine that not far from I stand, a malicious cliff awaits its prey:“Come you wishful one; come with your carefree, all too carefree, heart!” Even Marx remarks from his grave: “Philosophers have only interpreted the world in various ways; the point however is to change it.” Perhaps I might have been better off remaining on that earlier path, as a sure cog of society. These abstract thinkings seem pointless.


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