Feeding the Void — Leo Cunningham

From the velvet chains of the sumptuary laws of medieval Europe, to Edward Bernays' psychologically incisive PR engineering of consent, and into the seduction of modern luxury brands, the silky smooth plundering of identity through status has long been harvested.

The threads of that enticement have woven themselves, cleverly and sumptuously, into the neglected and fractured hearts of the well-heeled. Perhaps not quite for the nobility, who are often blinded by the inheritance of pride. But for today's self-made merchant, the UHNWI: refined, accomplished, but with a gnawing ache, stirring in the crook of their beleaguered soul.

What festers beneath the quiet luxury is the same ancient hunger, hijacked time and again by those wearing deliciously lustrous apparel, ready to profit. The need to belong, to be respected within one's social status, to create meaning from description. To stave off the fear that it was all for nothing.

The sticking plasters of this carefully manufactured emptiness are the exquisitely maleficent business of feeding the void.

To illustrate the concept of the void, we might draw upon Heidegger's thrownness, Sartre's nothingness, or Frankl's existential vacuum, and for those who wish to do so, then by all means, wallow in the cyclonic world of intellectual masturbation and self-validation. I'm sure you are right — it is imperative after all.

But for those rare few who can see through the veil, the void is something simpler. It is the gut-twisting sense that you are far removed from yourself. You are, in fact, alienated from your own being.

It is the nagging, tense, residual awareness that, despite the accolades, the victories, the respectful nods from your acquired friends and polished colleagues… it just doesn't feel complete.

So, you go around again. One more project. One more watch. One more retreat. One more woman.

Executive coaching from earnest, well-meaning suits. Wellness in the Swiss Alps. Ayahuasca in the jungle. It's all so transformative, so enduring.

Except it just isn't.

"I think I learned exactly how the fall of man occurred in the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden, and Adam said one day, 'Wow, Eve, here we are. One with nature, one with God, we'll never age, we'll never die, and all our dreams come true the instant we have 'em.' And Eve said, 'Yeah… it's just not enough, is it?'"

— Bill Hicks

And no amount of Macallan 25, or whatever your favourite synthetic poison may be, can quell it for long.

The suffering is real, but it cannot be spoken of. Because a successful man is not supposed to feel empty. Not with everything at his feet. And if he did speak up, who would he turn to? His friends? Most of them wouldn't understand, or worse, wouldn't listen.

A counsellor? Perhaps. But even that often feels like just another expense, another sticking plaster. One more attempt to outsource a problem buried deep in the marrow.

He's trapped, not by failure but by the aspartame taste of arrival. Worse off than the poor man who still believes, still strives, still moves in compliant rhythm, chasing freedom, diamonds and the rarified, exclusive air of the promised land — exclusive, elusive, and ultimately silent.

One plays the game, follows the plan. Blends, nods, gives up the time and ascends. And then finally arrives, only to realise that this was the wrong mountain.

That is the quiet wound. The ache that cannot be admitted. And that is why the business of feeding the void continues to thrive. It is the quietly screaming wound. A root-festering ache that seemingly cannot be cured. But perhaps, for now, it can be soothed.

And here is the waiting crowd of ingratiating, beautifully packaged, hyper-seductive peddlers of elegance and refinement, ready to satisfy your desire with quiet confidence and curated grace.

I'm certainly not against this type of exquisite seduction. There's nothing quite like wearing a beautifully crafted suit, the kind made by dedicated tailors, disciplined in the ballet of thread and needle, weaving a living masterpiece.

But it's not the aesthetic that grips me. The real beauty comes from the connection to the men who made it. To their focus, their patience, their unseen discipline. That's meaning. Not the reflection in the mirror, but the touch of their craft in the seams.

The rules of this game are valid but for a game that seeks only to reward itself. What a man truly needs, is to live by a different set of rules. Known only by the very few. Whispered and passed on to those that are ready. Those who sense there's something deeper.