The intellect is a cruel and deceptive servant. It inveigles you into pursuing its host of lowly passions that float on the horizon like a Fata Morgana, ostensibly promising joy. But no sooner do you appease it does the intensity of the passion fade into emptiness, the gratification transmogrifies into guilt, and the Fata Morgana vanishes into a further distant horizon; leaving you despondent, exhausted, and laboring alone under the yoke of a heavy compunction with empty hands. Wherein, to add insult to injury, it also disappears into the wind so you face the consequences unaccompanied.
It is a toxic solution that only births the disfigured offsprings of pain and sorrow, with its myriad kinfolk.
It is a servant that becomes rascal and riots unchecked unless it is subdued and brought under the suzerainty of the human spirit.
~Ikenna Q Ezealah