The concluding point of power is impotence, by definition. Each man’s power rises to a certain capacity and terminates, reaching the high water mark beyond which he simply cannot fill the basin. However, most can look upwards for higher marks, can see where others meet with impotence and, by comparison, attach a piece of themselves to those marks, those men, by virtue of a perceived or imagined commonality.

For a man of tremendous means, though, which is to say tremendous power, to plumb the precise depth of his abilities is to approximate the depth of the species. His point of impotence is so great that it washes away that of all others, and where he sits he can look upwards and see the untouched and unreachable in full, glaring, inescapable horror.

It is for this reason that despair comes as easily to the top as the bottom. The powerless man looks at what everyone around him has and weeps for his personal ignominy; the powerful man looks at what he has and weeps for the very well of potential itself.

It isn’t lonely at the top, but rather desolate.
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