Viktor Frankl is dead but i carry him inside.
still i allow myself some reservation of doubt, i always do.
one encounters also even in oneself the part of say inertness of a human mind,
a kind of dumbness which makes one prefer to stay in a system of doom and gloom where one knows 'home' with its limitations, punishments and meaningless despair blunted by comfort.
this looks like a place which persons often prefer for a very very long time to freedom.
the freedom of choice is pending over their head like a sword, they see another obligation with unknown consequences which should make them leave the patterns of self and of postponement:
to many near to impossible, inconceivable.
so i doubt that these who are called mentally normal or well adapted or healthy will look so much for meaning:
they imagine they are it. and then they make do with what they imagine. they just are fairly closed systems-
and none of us is called to be a hammer for them. life does this work.
and many persons prefer to be ill, sad, unhappy to a change in life. they find meaning in their drowning.
yes. it is a matter of attitude. all.
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