T
TheVanishingPoint
Member
- May 20, 2025
- 29
Life, stripped of its ornaments, is a constant discomfort, an unwanted wound, an existence thrown into meaninglessness. Existential pain cannot be cured: it is contained, disguised, ritualized. And where the final act fails, the strategy of language begins. Psychoanalysis is not a cure: it is bourgeois coping. It does not extinguish pain—it translates it into an acceptable language, frames it, makes it compatible with survival. It is a ritual, not a revolution. A weekly theatre where the subject recites their trauma under the mute gaze of a secular priest: the analyst. It does not save. It does not liberate. It does not redeem. Psychoanalysis freezes pain beneath the glass of reflection. It gives it speech, but does not let it die. It merely returns to the individual the right to narrate their unhappiness coherently. And this, in its radical uselessness, is all that is needed to avoid collapse. Psychoanalysis is a form of aesthetic resistance to the s***. It is how the intellectual, the disillusioned, the one who does not dare end their life, floats atop the sewage of existence. It builds no bridges. It opens no exits. But it shields the mind from immediate breakdown. If suicide is the logical act, psychoanalysis is the theatrical gesture of postponement. A compromise between nausea and silence. Practically, a sentence to unhappiness and suffering, but at least one dies of natural causes—just as desired by illness, morality, and the majority of religions that still steer global politics today.