Even “chaos” travels in circles. Ironically, it is usually the “lack of a routine” that returns one back to the point of origin.
The “traveler” has just despaired of boredom. He blames repetition and cannot reconcile himself to it in any form. To break the monotony, he flies after the nearest bright stimuli, again and again, and rarely sees that he travels in a circle of avoidance. He accumulates nothing; he dodges what is required to compound force. Life becomes, not a momentum toward new adventures, but a series of stultifications, an unceasing friction toward the inevitable collapse of the spirit ... followed by a tremendous, enervating expenditure, if one is to begin everything ... again! To start and stop ... as a repetition ... what else could be hell?
But heaven? Heaven is something different. Its only flaw is not that it is boring, but that we prefer the sensation of power to power itself. In a formula: the boredom in heaven belongs only to those who look upon it from the hell of preferring the stimulus to the condition it creates.