I work with an aggravating, destructively extroverted woman who never shuts the fuck up.
If she’s not talking, she’s laughing; if she’s not laughing, she’s chewing, and if she’s not chewing, she’s burping (or other forms of ill-digestive repression). She is a vile, loud woman who appears to live for pleasure and sensory abundance only. She is one of those people who seem to believe they were put on the planet for only one thing: to have a good time. Life, for them, is a challenge, an obstacle to overcome and work tirelessly around in order finagle an existence whose prime directive to to have fun while subscribing to the noxious entitlement of gluttony of the mind and the body.
She is a hedonist, and she looks like a hedonist.
Hedonists are not spartan, they do not do less than they possibly can in the realm of indulgence.
A hedonist will more resemble Lena Dunham than Ghandi. This we know, instinctively. Hedonists do not worship gravity, they have no comprehension of stoicism, for their life, each day they wake, must represent a unprecedented spiral into the depths, or heights, of existence and experience.
A devout sense and practice of equanimity in one’s life concomitantly results in an instinctively recognized appearance of the ascetic.
A hedonist lives to live more.
An ascetic lives to live less.
Which do you live for? Your definition in turn defines you.