on my sudden unreasonable anger while watching award reception today

Judgmental and sweeping and fallacious, but let me get it out will you.

Logical, mathematical genius is superfluous and too common. Sure, help me balance my checkbook. And will this make you any more of a person than you are? Would you, as you plummet towards the ground from the top of a building, be furiously estimating your distance from the ground by the number of levels up you ascended earlier, just so you can calculate the force of impact, assess your chances of survival, predict how many bones you will break, how many organs you will rupture?

Sharp critical insight, talent with humanities, produces frightening people, but is ultimately pointless--he/she can out-argue me, but does he/she not live chained by knowledge of these things? And whyever would I want that? Would you think and philosophise on the futility of order in humanity for we all bow to our base instincts and are no more the 'civilised population' we envisioned ourselves to be than the rest of our clade--ponder so hard that, at last in despair, you desire to be rid of your humanity and conscience and cognizance? You pound at conundrums you know you will never solve. Ethics and politics and theology--where do you intend to go with this? Is it any wonder to be able to write essays about them--such a futile exercise?

Comprehension of psychology; it draws honour, it terrifies hearts, but this is a class of pitiable people. They may map the labyrinth of my mind, comprehend the manner in which I take in, process, respond to the stimulus of the world. They may hope to predict how I act next, pre-empt my moves, outsmart me and tangle me up. I'm sure that's satisfying in some twisted way. But try as they might they cannot take my mind and happiness as their own. They can analyse and scour as they wish, but no multitude of analyses will yield them an answer to the question: how can I be happy?

Creative intelligence shuns everything else, seeing itself as the only sane one in the world. Yet it, itself, is the insane one, living in illusion. It encloses itself, away from the world, within a bubble that is essentially defined by selfishness. It matters, no longer, how the world runs, as long as it is happy. It craves acceptance, love, singularity. It runs from your concerns because my concerns are all that matter. It tries to reproduce reality in the way that suits it best, the reality it desires, the reality it knows it will never have and all the more must bring forth. The creator is a disillusioned fool, who refuses the truth, and hides within his/her own religion, the synthetic, esoteric religion of the dream and the love and the nonexistent story. Opens the windows but closes the door. Refuses the electric bulb for a candle. The creator doesn't understand. Refuses to understand. Clings sheer to his/her own selfish, flawed, unreal understanding of the world as it is. And doesn't want it any other way, because it loves its own too much.

But at least it is truly happy, or at least as close to happiness as anyone ever will be.