Anxiety is the result of a misapprehension — not of the horrors that exist in the world (those are real), but the consequences of experiencing them. The worst moments, just like the best, are abruptly relegated to obscurity.
There’s little benefit to imitating so-called “great” men and women. By definition, they’ve forfeited at least one quality possessed by anyone with sense: their anonymity.
Anxiety is a preemptive form of survivor’s guilt. Not compelled to endure the worst, one experiences a simulated version of it, anyway.
I used to dread the possibility that everyone might look at me. Now I pity the few who actually do it.
Given sufficient intelligence and strength to adequately survive, the species has instead attempted to flourish.
With greater comfort comes also a lower tolerance for any manner of inconvenience.
When one is moved to self-immolation merely because the internet is slow — this, more than anything, represents a victory for the species.