There are those out there who believe that a decisive action is not a sensation in itself. That the feeling arise from completion of a task, or some such other event, are simply accomplishment, pride or satisfaction.
The Hedonist simply asks why can not everything be felt as a sensation? Why must there be rationalisation?
A woman is sitting in her living room. There is music playing, but she does not hear it. The sun is mild, it does not hurt her eyes, yet she is blinking and rubbing her forehead. Aaaaah... She is thinking.
She has been thinking for such a long time, that she may have already forgotten the reason she believes a decision needs to be made. When you think too long, sometimes the reasons change a number of times. On the floor by her feet are a multitude of scrunched up pieces of paper. Scrawled on them are the beginnings of ideas, trains of thought, processes to be followed. Ifs, Whys and buts filled each line, like a parade of colourful clowns. They trip and dance like it's a celebration, taunting her.
Often enough, there's not a seemingly straightforward choice. There are so many shades of grey, that one may confuse the rainbow for shades of the light and dark, as opposed to the spectrum of colours filling the world.
Filling her lungs and expelling the air with violent force, she sighs an incomprehensible series of syllables. They seem to make more sense to her than the options laying before her. The trains of thought have crashed. There is no more movement. Instead, it's a massacre of reasoning with no press to cover it for the masses to see.
She walks to the bathroom. She looks at her face in the mirror. There are dark circles under her eyes. She hasn't slept properly in days. Her brain keeps reminding her to remember things just as she feels she is able to fall asleep. Her mind is worries that the two of them cannot hold it together for long enough. Her thoughts are paranoid that she will betray them with indifference and indecisive dithering.
Splashing cool water on her face, rubbing it down the sides of her cheeks and up the sides of her nose, she feels more alive than she has all day. Her skin responds by tightening up. Her lethargic brain, tired of being forced into a mental contortion act, is standing to attention again. It won't last very long at all. She needs to make the most of it.
She knows what she needs to do. She has from the very start. She only entertained other ideas, other plans of attack, to make sure she wasn't being rash. Rash decisions do not sounds good to anyone looking to be an adult, even though everyone makes them.
She moves to her computer.
She turns on the screen.
She takes the mouse in her hand and clicks at an icon.
She waits for the window to load.
And then, in one act of decisive defiance...
She begins to type.
The feeling she has when she finishes is not a sense of accomplishment. It was nothing to type some words on a screen. It is not as though she trained for months or years for that very moment. Nor is it a kind of closure, for the actions she takes today require further action down the line to keep the ball rolling, as it were. No, she is feeling no pride. Her action is nothing to be proud of.
She feels not empowered by the making of the decision. It is not that she is unempowered. It is just not an issue of power.
She is, quite simply, filled with the sensation of decision.
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