For me, it's there like an itch: If I don't think about it, it's not there.
It starts as a little twinge- just enough to get my attention. Maybe it happens somewhere I don't expect it, like my thigh or shoulder. Sometimes it doesn't occur where it should. Why do I itch on my shoulder when the ant bites are on my calf? Am I really surprised at this point? What can I do to stop it?
There are two answers. I can indulge myself -scratch the itch until I'm satisfied- or I can take the higher road. Ignore it and it'll go away. Usually. But now it's got a good portion of my attention. I try to ignore it.
Then the itch employs an incredibly sly tactic. It waits a few seconds until my mind leaves it behind. Then it twinges again, a little bit more. Now it's starting to bother me. I had just gotten rid of the thought of scratching, and the itch went away. I thought I was in the clear, but now it's back and stronger than before. It controls my attention.
Still, I know to ignore it. I've done this several times and I know. Ignore it and it'll go away. I know it itches, but indulgence is not the answer.
The itch is still there, like someone tickling your skin with a feather. The sensation gets stronger and stronger. My body pleads with my mind. "Please scratch me!" it yells. Still, I don't make a move. I know if I start moving, I'll try to "accidentally" scratch my itch. I need to conserve my energy: This will be one hell of a mental battle.
Although I consider myself a strong-minded person, it does me no good in this case. My mind is making equally strong arguments supporting and fighting my indulgence. The only difference is the physical side of the argument, or in other words, my body. But my body itches. I'm fighting a losing battle every time. Still I know; Ignore it and it'll go away. I've done it before, and I can do it again. Indulgence is not the answer. Think of the consequences.
But the itch goes away for both actions. And it only goes away temporarily for both actions. One's just much harder.
If I don't scratch, then the itch goes away slowly. I'm also left with no physical marks of my temptations. No one will know that I itched unless I tell them. Of course, the itch will come back like always, but maybe continuous time spent ignoring the itch will numb my body over time. Maybe it will get easier to ignore it. To take the higher road that excludes self indulgence. It's just so hard when my body makes such a convincing physical argument.
If I scratch, I get immediate relief. Relief until the itch comes back stronger than before. Then I'll be even more tempted to scratch, and the itch will come back again, stronger than that. It will lead into an endless spiral. But let's say that I choose to scratch. Just scratch it this one time. I can just scratch once and be done, right?
Without thinking, I reach for it. I see what I'm doing, but it's like my mind is gone. I can't think, I can only act. There needs to be some sort of action right now, and ignoring is not action- it's inaction. Scratching is action. I need the scratch.
The next thing I know, my fingernails are going back and forth. It feels so relieving. In fact, it feels so relieving that I keep going longer than necessary. "Just for a second longer," my body tells me, "Remember, you said it was just this once, so let's make it good." One more second turns into five more as my body pleads for me to keep going. Five more turns into ten more seconds.
It's at this point that something happens. Something changes within me. My mind wakes up, and I realize what I'm doing. My body won't let me stop though.
"This can't feel good," my mind thinks, "You're pressing your sharp fingernails firmly into your skin and pulling it back and forth repeatedly in only a small area. This hurts."
"No. It feels good. This itch was bothering you for so long. Keep going."
The battle of my mind and body creates an odd mix of pain and pleasure. It feels right, but I know it isn't. Also, I notice that I have to keep pressing harder with my fingernails to scratch my itch.
Now is the point where I must decide. Do I end it now, or do I keep going?
In this case, there is no in between. Indecisiveness stalls long enough to be a "keep going." It is either stop or go.
Humans aren't perfect. We like pleasure. We like to feel good. We also like to think that we are rational. But in-the-moment is not rational. Rational is thinking out of the context of in-the-moment. Rational is longterm. What good is scratching now doing me in the long run? What's going to make me better off down the road: scratching or stopping?
This is how I know humans are not rational while in the moment. Sitting here, I'm sure we can all think of the most correct answer, which is to stop scratching. Sitting here, we can think of the consequences if we keep scratching beyond this point. Sitting here, it seems so obvious.
But it's not obvious. Remembering that we are people who strive to make ourselves better off any way we can, think back to the beginning when I was still in control. I wasn't scratching. I knew, "Ignore it and it'll go away." If I had stayed rational, I would have waited until my itch was gone and then gone about my day. It was the moment that I stopped thinking- the moment my body followed its primal instincts- that I turned irrational. I was no longer thinking about the long run. My focus was on immediate relief and pleasure. It was at this point that I had lost my control.
My mind was in a deadlock between scratching and not scratching. The only other origin of argument was from my body, which was screaming for me to scratch it. As long as it feels good, I'm going to scratch. It's not my fault. My one moment of irrationality got me in to this, and in the moment, each decision to keep scratching seems rational to me. Why would I want to stop something that feels good? And like most humans, I will choose to scratch past that point. I will continue to feel that odd sensation of pain mixed with pleasure.
The outcome is inevitable, and we see it coming. This is a tragedy. Humans are tragedies.
We keep scratching. We've already been proven in this situation to think in the short run for immediate relief. Otherwise, we wouldn't be in this situation. We scratch past the tipping point, heading straight for the breaking point. We keep digging our fingernails harder and harder into our skin, scratching more vigorously with each passing second. Something has to give in order to bring us back to rationality.
Our skin breaks; blood has been drawn.
The sight of the blood brings rationality back in a rush. It's at this point that we feel our guilt. "Why did I keep scratching? I knew this would happen," we think. This is when we ask ourselves some of the toughest questions. They aren't tough because there's a hidden answer. They're tough questions because we know the answers, we just aren't proud of them.
There is now physical evidence of what we have done. The blood from our self-indulgence stains our skin. It leaves scars for others to see. Now it is something we must live with every day. We can choose to hide it, or we can put it out in the open for others to see.
How will these scars affect us? Will they make us stronger by reminding us the consequences of self-indulgence? Or will they make us feel weak by reminding us that humans can be irrational tragedies? Of course, sitting here, the answer seems obvious: "Use it as a tool to remind you of the perils of irrationality!" we shout. But what makes a man is what he chooses when he's in the moment. Will he stay rational, or will he spiral into the dangers of irrationality and immediate pleasures? This is the moment that defines you.
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