Thought & Taboo: Descartes, de Sade, and Us
I built a community I adored — and it burned me out. The book club around Cult of Jess gave me brilliant conversations, but constant online chatter left me drained. As an introvert, the internet leaks my energy. I need the unplugged, analog world to think, to create, and to breathe. INFJ problems — or maybe just human problems dressed up in a Myers-Briggs costume.
Maybe that’s why I resonate so much with Descartes — retreating into solitude to think clearly. His famous line, “Cogito, ergo sum” (I think, therefore I am), often feels like the simplest defense of why I need space away from the noise.
I miss book club, but I wanted to do it differently — to honor the energy it takes to be present. At first, I considered using my fan platforms for 120 Days of Sodom, thinking, “how bad can it be? I’ll just omit a few words.” I cracked it open at random and landed on a passage about scat play. So much for my optimistic delusion. There would be remarkable omissions if I tried to use any platform tied to money.
It’s hard to navigate the chatter of social media — those rare pauses where my brain breathes easily vanish if I’m not careful. The beast of relevance, virality, and attention — the real currency now — gnaws at me. I love connecting with people, but I need limits while still producing something you can ingest and interact with. It feels hypocritical, but I trust myself to respond when something truly thought-provoking arises. This is a filter we should all use.
Analog pleasures like reading instead of scrolling feel indulgent. Long-form thought feels archaic against 15-second bursts, 240 characters, or captions cut short at 125 words. I’ve started journaling in cursive so I don’t lose the ability. Humans adapt, but “use it or lose it” isn’t a cute saying — it’s the rulebook, physically and mentally.
Back in the early 2000s, Dreams in Digital by Orgy was a favorite song — now it reads like prophecy, a neon-lit horror story of 2025. I know what a luxury it was to grow up unplugged, to form a self-image before existing online. To be defined first by how others perceive you is a heartbreaking reality. I miss that world — even if I still enjoy light automation and food delivery.
I like my mental maps, writing and editing with the creative friction of my own brain instead of relying on GPS or an external neural network. I wonder how many smooth brains we’ll end up with, since humans aren’t conditioned to resist ease — we’re conditioned to seek it, because once ease meant survival.
Mostly, I’m tired of the drivel the attention economy produces. So much “pick me” energy, I half expect to see monks in TikTok robes debating who’s the most devout. My proclivities wouldn’t fit well in religious contexts — another reason I created the Cult of Jess, in jest. I’m not far from designing an order just for myself to play out that unplugged fantasy. For me, time is precious. Most people leak energy into platforms addicted to low-grade dopamine. For me, diving deep is a passion project.
And so, internally, I giggle as I start this morbid curiosity of the Marquis de Sade in public. I need to warn any reader: I get off on pushing my mental limits — not always to indulge the act, but to observe my emotions and broaden my understanding of others and what makes them tick. That curiosity, not indulgence, drives me.
We live in an age of constant chatter. The internet demands presence, attention, and response, but leaves little room for solitude. Maybe this is my own Discours de la méthode: not to withdraw from the world entirely, but to carve out scraps of quiet — just enough to think, to create, to breathe without the algorithm breathing down my neck.
Reading begins Sept 21st 2025
