Why Civilization Bad

This case study does not seek answers, nor does it attempt to persuade. Rather, it is a perspective—one rooted in humility. I hope to provoke disagreement, to spark the beginnings of difficult yet necessary conversations that we must have with ourselves. In a world often dictated by authority, I aim to offer a door to a safe space—one where reflection, honesty, and understanding can flourish.

What is real to you? What are you willing to sacrifice to belong? And where is it that you truly belong? To society? To yourself? Or, perhaps, in harmony with both? This is not a judgment of what matters to others but an invitation—to think freely, to embrace what matters most to you, and perhaps, to discover the confidence in what makes you great.

We fight for restorative justice for others, ensuring they belong, that they have a place. Yet, when it comes to ourselves, we impose punitive measures—convincing ourselves we are outcasts, that there are things fundamentally wrong with us, and, most painfully, unworthy of love. But it is not selfish to extend the same grace to ourselves that we so freely offer others. It is necessary. And when we recognize its power, we create paths for others to believe in themselves—to accept mistakes, grow, and make decisions with wisdom and care.

At the end of the day, you will do what matters most to you. I am tired. I have thought, and I have cried writing this—for reasons I allow myself to be alone in. Perhaps the root of my tears is simple: I struggle to express the deepest thoughts, ideas and understandings of my core. Yet, I take solace in knowing that, with time, the words will come.

The following is a farrago of my consciousness—messy, uncertain, searching. I do not know if this is a case study, an ode to barbarism, or a love letter to the wild ones. Perhaps, all that matters is that it is me—right now. An account of my struggle with civilization, and how I aim to reconcile my own discontent.

Yes. Your obedience, conformity, and absolute loyalty are needed for the functioning of the Party.

Is civilization bad? Not inherently. Civilization provides safety, stability, and grants us access to luxuries we would not enjoy as individuals. It allows us to create beauty, gives us the chance to belong to something greater than ourselves, and offers an outlet to combat the destruction that nature sometimes imposes through collective collaboration and effort. It allows us to build upon and learn for others. It allows time for us to be creative and contribute through our strengths.

But what is it that civilization requires from us? Freud notes cleanliness, order, justice, control of instinct, work and productivity, and art and culture. Are we overindulging in society for what it provides? At what point does it strip away what makes us human, encouraging us to move through our days in a hive-minded fashion?

If civilization is reality, why is there such an emphasis on focusing on what is real, while simultaneously engaging in practices designed to offer reprieve, respite or distraction from it? And if myth is more real than reality, why can't we live there?

Perhaps it is all a ruse, a quiet manipulation to keep us tugging the line. After all, unfortunately, at times we are quick to advocate for what we believe in—only to discover that the cause we support is not, in fact, aligned with our desires, but merely framed as such to benefit a select few.

What is taught to us? What we see? I believe the only thing that is real is what the individual experiences—and if that is so, then reality is never the same for everyone. It can't be.

Take, for example, an identical email sent to two recipients. One may receive it feeling heard and understood, while the other may find it dismissive and lacking compassion. So, which interpretation is real?

In this sense, reality stems from the sender—their emotions and intended outcome in crafting the message. What is received, however, is merely an interpretation, filtered through the reader's own emotions, biases, and understanding. That does not mean the impact on the receiver is unimportant—but while the experience may feel real to them, it may also be an imagined distortion of the sender's true intent.

Reality cannot be uncovered through ignorance, nor through the avoidance of difficult truths about ourselves. It demands confrontation—a willingness to face the uncomfortable and unearth what we have long refused to see. And to stand tall in front of the superego without fear of the information it presents.

By the end of this, I hope to have found more answers within myself, as writing will have to grant me something close to the clarity offered by conversation and discussion. But in truth, it will likely leave me with nothing more than more questions—more perspectives to weigh and balance.

And I hope it does the same for you, the reader.

Because in the end, what matters most is not merely what reality is, but how we engage with it— how we interact with the reality of our existence and cope with the proverbial contract we have signed by choosing to exist within the safety, stability and beauty that is civilization.

Walking to my final exam today, I saw an elderly woman. The sunlight hit her face—a face filled with dread as she battled the hill, cane in hand. Although I had little time before my exam and had yet to find a lighter, which I had foolishly left at home, I stopped. I said, Hello. What a beautiful day—the sun is finally shining, and it's really bringing warmth.

She hesitated for a moment but then replied, Yes, it is—and much needed.

After a bit of back and forth, I left saying, I hope the rest of your day is as enjoyable as today's weather, and she wished me the same.

Just as I was about to disappear behind the trees, I heard her call out. I turned back, wondering what had happened, but she simply waved and yelled, Thank you for the greeting!

All I could shout in return was, Of course! Thank you for engaging with me!

We barely have time for our friends and family—the people closest to us. And if one should oppose us, another will take their place.

The loss of love is real. It is something that impacts us deeply, yet civilization offers us the ability to replace what we've lost with ease. We are not required to work hard to maintain our love objects—there are simply too many. Civilization provides opportunities to satisfy our basic needs far more easily than we ever could alone in nature.

But the things that would be precious due to scarcity are diminished.

I am certain that if we didn't have access to such abundance, we would work harder to keep what we have. Instead, we see another human as precisely that—just another human. Not as another being struggling, battling the uphill climb that we all face, with cane in hand or not.

Why should we stop for another when we don't even stop for those most important to us?

We may—but do we stop because we truly desire to? Or is it simply out of fear of losing love?

To my left, I see children playing—dancing in the park, some aware and others blissfully ignorant of the harsh realities of the world. Yet, they play. They smile, laugh, and yell. They are together, but each lost in their own movement—one dancing, another running, another squatting with deep concentration, eager to examine whatever it is that has caught their attention on the ground.

To my right, adults stand in an orderly line, heads bowed, eyes locked onto their screens, enclosed in bubbles of their own as they return home from contributing to the functioning of society.

As I finish my smoke, standing atop my balcony and looking down, I have the advantage of observing more than I would if I were on the ground. I can't help but admire their ability to persist—to show up and engage with something that, more often than not, holds little interest or passion for them. And if they do have passion for it, it is diminished by the lack of freedom to operate as they see fit.

All the pieces must come together for society to function. It is never perfect. Yet, there is something inherently beautiful about a collective—at every level—working to sustain itself. And though I carry the weight of my discontent with civilization, I have no choice but to romanticize it—so that I may continue to show up. Not just for my own happiness, but for the happiness of all.

It is confusing, influential, compelling—and most of all, convincing.

The superego is civilization's creation, a force meant to internalize the aggressive nature of humanity—to transform us from destructive, barbaric beings into civil ones, filled with notions of cleanliness, order, and justice. But how exhausting it is to be ruled by the superego.

It beats us down, convincing us we are the opposite of who we truly desire to be. For civilization, there is no better institution of control than the superego itself. And yet, we continue to accept what it tells us, justifying the aggression it imposes on us. We tell ourselves we deserve it—that it will make us better.

How is that justice? If civilization has instilled in us the ability to control our impulses—to override instinct with rationality—then does this not exemplify what it is to be civil? Does restraint not prove our adherence to the pillars of order, justice, and discipline?

And yet, despite successfully governing our thoughts, we still punish ourselves.

Even when we choose prudence, when we silence our instincts and align with the expectations imposed upon us, we suffer under the weight of self-reprimand. But why? If the ability to suppress our barbaric nature defines civility, then why do we feel shame rather than triumph?

Does this mean, then, that being civil requires us to strip away our humanity?

The superego does not grant us the grace to act in the way we see best fitting. Most often, we act according to what seems best in the moment, and at times, we overlook certain things—not because we do not care, but because we do not know. Unfortunately, in hindsight, clarity is cruel, and we punish ourselves for failing to know better.

And yes—at times, the superego is needed. But is it balanced? Or do we overindulge it, hoping that, eventually, it will understand us, accept us, and love us?

I believe that until we learn how to balance the superego, ego, and id, we do not truly know how to love ourselves. And if we do not know how to love ourselves—can we truly know how to love others?

For me—to love another properly, I must first learn to love myself.

I must show up wholly—not allowing my desires to cause pain upon another, managing my impulses with grace, harmony, and balance. To accept the needs of another, even when they conflict with my own, without their needs feeding my superego and creating inner turmoil.

For when we are at our most vulnerable—when existence, civilization, and everything we carry becomes unbearable—when we must face it alone—will we be able to be there for ourselves?

There was a time when I was not.

Even now, I am not perfect in that sense. Just like most, I face moments of weakness.

Yet, I am proud to say my aggression—both externally and internally—is far removed from the barbaric nature I once exhibited.

But there remains a longing.

A longing to be free.

And how do we allow ourselves the pleasure of freedom while still balancing what it means to be civil?

During my last arrest, I overheard the police speaking to the doctor, and I will never forget his words.

Perhaps this is not an ode to barbarism, but rather a love letter to the wild ones.

There is a way to be a productive member of society while bringing your individuality and individuation into the world. To fight your superego, but to use prudence—to grant it only a rational and wise amount of authority. Because it can help shape who you desire to be—but like anything given too much power, it will confine you otherwise. Others deserve to see the completeness of your beauty. And if you let it win, the great person you are—the full depth of your existence—will never be reached nor witnessed by others at its fullest.

To allow yourself to be free. To make mistakes. To endure exhaustion without retreating into an internal prison. Although much growth and creativity can be nurtured and fostered within such confinement, civilization needs your uncleanliness (grit), your disorder, your true sense of justice. Your willingness to break rules when it is the right thing to do.

We often believe that measurement falls along a continuum—but in truth, thresholds exist. There comes a point where too much becomes a totality—and if that totality is all that remains, it ceases to hold meaning. If all is good and well, does it remain good and well when there is no contrast—when it exists as an unchallenged absolute?

Or do good and well only exist because of their counterparts?

And maybe there is no problem with that. Only time truly knows.

Perhaps, in the end, none of this matters—because, in reality, do we truly have control? We enjoy the things that give us the illusion of control. We take comfort in decisions that make us feel as though we matter. But in truth, the only control we have in this world is over ourselves.

What does society provide?

A false sense of control—a carefully manufactured feeling that makes you believe you matter. But why do we require another to tell us we matter and are special in order to feel safe, appreciated and whole?

Because we cannot tell it to ourselves.

Understand that at times, morality is a privilege. Recognize that not all rules serve the greater good—many exist only as a ruse, a carefully designed control meant to convince us that who we are is unworthy of civilization's love.

That we will never compare to our neighbor's greatness.

That we will never amount to the impossible expectations we set for ourselves—expectations shaped not by our own truth, but by the idea of another.

For how we see another is merely a mask, a projection, an imagined version of who we think they are. We can never truly know. Yet, we set our standards against these illusions, measuring ourselves against shadows.

Perhaps, if we cultivate our own gardens enough—if we know ourselves deeply—we may gain a clearer view of others. But still, we will never truly know them.

And yet, we continue to judge ourselves against an unknowable reflection.

More often than not, when an animal is backed into a corner, it lashes out in self-defense. But we—we have become so civil that when our superego corners us, we do not fight back.

We do not revolt.

We curl inward.

We inflict punishment upon ourselves—far greater than the superego ever could.

We have become pacifists even in the face of our own suffering.

For it is there—in that space of rebellion and raw honesty—that I feel most free.

It is where the balance of my id, ego, and superego is most pure.

Though I may leave, visit, engage, and carve out a place within all levels of civilization—I belong to the dogs.

And I am okay with that.

With love,
G