It is the ever-present tendency of the realists to dismiss all that which can be construed as play, fun, joy, colour, magic, fantasy, or myth. The realist demands that all be forced to live in a joyless world of grey and taxes. The bounty of play, which we soulists enjoy so fruitfully, is a privilege to be confined only to the youth by realists. And even so, they seek to burden children with school, homework, and extracurriculars to drain what little joy they have from the world. The only great myth of joy which children are largely permitted to have is Santa, and only because he brings capitalism and debt into the parents’ lives as much as he brings happiness to the children.
In contrast, the soulist lives in a world of colour, imagination, beauty, freedom, and play. She practices witchcraft, he plays video games, they watch cartoons, and it writes stories. Soulists create our realities, and so it is the inevitable consequence that we become practiced artists, breathing beauty into all we touch. When all you have is choice, it is very difficult indeed to tolerate dullness. The soulist life is one of pain, yes. And heartbreak, of course. And even depression. But even the most miserable soulist cannot help but make their sickness interesting. To a degree much greater than the most creative realist.
Why this disparity? I believe the simplest and most straightforward answer is that it’s about control.
A lot of asexual women struggle to understand their sexuality, thinking it’s normal to hate sex, and it’s no wonder, because through the 20th century and before, women were told that sex isn’t supposed to be fun. Everyone knew the lesbians were enjoying themselves, of course, but that’s sinful. Good, proper, christian sex with a man is supposed to hurt like hell and cause not a bit of pleasure. And you must remain a virgin until marriage, of course, but if a manslut demands you in bed then you’d better accept his STDs and suck it up when it hurts to pee.
That’s the control the patriarchy exerts on women. The utter destruction and criminalisation of fun and pleasure. The woman under patriarchy is reduced to a slave, just as are all workers under Capital, and all worshippers under Rome. This is an abusive relationship with the great oppressive gods of our society, who like many abusers, suck all joy out of the realists’ lives to further their abuse.
A victim of a controlling abusive relationship has been conditioned to see love and fun and imagination as threats, because they are indeed threats to the abuser’s control. And they are also threats to the learned helplessness of the victim, who would surely be driven into despair at the knowledge that joy is indeed possible. That the lack of good things in their life is not a universal condition of suffering, but is instead bad luck, or as the abused mind sees things, personal weakness. So to avoid despair, the realist victim chooses numbness. And creates a whole world of grey, dull, numbing boredom.
And how do the realist progressives respond to this? The realist progressives recognise this abusive relationship, its causes, and its means of control. But do they rebel? No. They fight within this world of grey, playing by its rules. They conduct their protests and insurrections in misery and boredom, giving speeches of dispassion that deal only with reality and supposed truth. Can a realist believe in a myth and draw strength? No. Can a realist examine a work of fiction and learn anything important? No. Realism is the death of culture and the death of art, even when it is practiced by communists, who by every right should know better.
The way to save an abuse victim is to give them joy. Show them what is possible. Give them something to hope for. Even if you must drive them into the pit of despair that is knowing a better life is possible and not having it. You still must! Because that is the only way to relieve the numbed suffering they feel now. You must break into their oppression with swords of play and bullets of love and show them a better future. You must give them art and fantasy and myth. These are the tools with which to destroy realism and end capitalism. To set these tools aside and engage in the miserable trench warfare of realist revolution is absurd. And yet it is the choice of the realist progressives.
The realist condition is deeply baffling. But perhaps it is not surprising to find a people that hate joy, in a world that kills it.
