We barter, then, our position for obscurity. Is the soul impoverished because we are destitute of choice? We choose one thing, one side, in order that we may continue to live away from the quick of things. Those who attain the edge often do not walk it long. Wiser men have called this chosen obscurity the bourgeois way of life. Never mind if it is a lesser life, it is still a choice. Who are we to say if this is a greater evil, though you will call it the bourgeois apology?
The path to freedom, usually glimpsed high above, lies through the difficulties of petty choices. In themselves, these choices are not poor. They become a phalanx, a desert, when their strictures appear to be an imposed, unbearable choice upon a life. Tragic things and things like poetry are born of that situation of imposed, substituted places and things. When the discomfort can be borne, as it most often is, its bearers gather as dust on the path to the heaven poets and lenders alike extol.
The soul is more impoverished when we are destitute of direction.