The Tragedy of Post Scarcity

We prefer comfort — no matter how melancholic

A hunter hunts. But placed in a room of meat, what does a hunter do? He could still hunt, but that takes energy that needs not spending. So he eats, and sits, and thinks.

In a prior life, the hunter planned routes, tracked prey, sharpened his skills, exhausted his mind and body in the pursuit of sustenance. And at the end of the day, with little energy left to exert, he slept.

But now, he has time. He sits and thinks of his past life, and how hard it was. More than that though, he lets his mind race, bouncing across domains, examining the recesses of his own conscience. He doesn’t think about today or even tomorrow, but the abstract notion of his own future — years, even decades that haven’t happened yet.

And in this contemplation, the melancholy plants its seeds. Like an artist examining their own artwork, imperfections in his own psyche - once imperceptible, begin to magnify.

This introspection wasn’t possible in a prior life. A hunter doesn’t brood in melancholic contemplation - a hunter hunts. The hunter doesn’t benefit from frivolous self-analysis — so he doesn’t.

But things have changed, and the hunter — no, person, has been gifted unending meat, and now has time to think.

In his past life, his function, purpose, and identity were one. He was a hunter, and he hunted. And when he was done, he slept.

Sometimes the hunter thinks fondly of his past life, and how hard it was. He’s only human though, he prefers comfort — no matter how melancholic.