We can only desire what we know, and we can never understand completely what we do not desire. Not that we would want to, anyways. There is always a need for intoxication: a date with chance, a conversation with risk dressing up as fate. A reason to continue to live. For we are the modern bourgeois society: generations of fear pumping through like diesel, running around with glue in our eyes, entirely ignorant of ourselves and of others, invisible but present. All is done - both torment and satisfaction - with exquisite refinement.
What matters is not merely that we see the thing anymore but how we see it: In beautiful ignorance, we find our satisfaction; in appeasing illusions, the false promise of attaining happiness in something that doesn’t exist. Interpretation becomes a coping mechanism in order for us to feel as though we’ve got the control we’re craving for. Like what Sontag had exclaimed, Interpretation makes life manageable, comfortable. Is that all that life really is? A need for comfort? Alas we throw ourselves back into the cycle of wanting and whining, never quite understanding the full spectrum of what this life is, if it is anything to begin with.