Do we love our misery? Our defeats? Our angst? Do we revel in it? Of course we do. But, then, what choice have we got? The human creature is of such a frail constitution, that it must, and will undoubtedly, find something to love even in the most deplorable of states. We need to find things beautiful, and the more horrific they are, the more power we experience over them in beautifying them. Yet, ultimately, nobody wants to dwell on loss, and, however much sympathy may sweeten a bitter condition, we'd all prefer admiration to sympathy, and triumph to tragedy.
It irks me when anyone suggests that we love, and choose, our misery. If we choose it, it's only after the choice has been made for us, and because we need to retain some semblance, albeit illusion, of freedom; also, because it is easier to "go with the flow" than to wage an endless, fruitless struggle against it, even when that flow leads to the tears and consolations, rather than the laughter and applause, of the crowd.
We are who we are, and we have little choice but to find something beautiful in it. We form our arguments in accordance with our dispositions, and not the other way around. The free spirit will always advocate a positive outlook, not because the outlook uplifts him, or is more "true"; but because it is natural and congenial to him, and he may even be incapable of taking a darker view. The industrious man praises industry and prides himself on his fidelity to it, while deriding all others. The reflective man praises leisure. And so on. We play our parts.
If your part is a sad one, then, at least, do not be ashamed to lend style to your character. So long as we feel ourselves or our fates to be tragic, then let us revel in them nonetheless, as we would in victory; let us glory in our misery and find beauty in our disintegration. Who, happier and healthier than we are, would presume to begrudge us this carrion comfort?
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