Freud Didn't Tell Us Anything We Didn't Already Know

If you can't write what you think, then what's the point in writing? If you can't say what you mean, then what's the point in speaking? These questions, which I just a moment ago realized how to say, make life difficult. Where is the point if it's not where you want it? No direction home kind of thing.

Of course there's a reason and it lies in the fact that those things I can't describe keep me going. They give me something to live for. I wouldn't want my life if it came mystery-free, sans aches. Those questions point to insurmountable challenges. And as long as a challenge is insurmountable, there's always something to hope for.

There's my superego and my id when I think, when I write, when I live. There's the way I could say things that are clear and incisive and people-friendly. There's also the way that I could approach life that is distinctly my own. It'd often be meaningless to passer-by, incomprehensible. Hell, I wouldn't even know what I meant. I would just know that it's what I wanted to say. I think ids are far too easily beaten down by superegos. Who's to care if we speak garble or say things the way they come to us? We're given information from our brains in a raw, beautiful form, I think. We repackage it soon afterward so that it can be presented to others. Maybe what we need is a little bit more intellectual selfishness; people can figure out things as you say them or not.

Even this piece has yet to be examined by me, the writer. I'm sure tomorrow I'll see that it's full of logical flaws and morally reprehensible. For tonight, though, I'm saying these words as they come to me. Freud would probably say these paragraphs indicate that there's something blocking my own consciousness and that senseless paragraphs are a means of escape. That's a thought.

And the funny thing is I don't even much subscribe to Freud. I think he didn't tell us anything we didn't already know.