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The most interesting and frustrating thing about living in this age is that there is nothing stable left to stand on.
The concept of truth has been dishonored and along with it all the ideals that were dependent upon it.
A world released from external definitions, settles for illusions to recreate itself continuously and it invents perils and desires to maintain cohesion by keeping its parts in a continuous state of mystification.
Anomie keeps the social brew bubbling, making the boundaries attractive and the extremes, factories of doe-eyed wellness.
This is the world where the sightless get swept away by passing fads and the sighted, even if one-eyed, project inner islands outwardly, and call them home.
Experiences are enjoyed more in expectation rather than in their actuality than they are enjoyed in retrospect. The mind has a way of forgetting detail. Should I be feeling shame for it, should I be embarrassed because of it?
Progress has certainly done its best to make me feel so. It has certainly tried to convince me that I should suffer for it, that I’m born guilty of it - just by being me- just by being.
But besides an earlier bout with bad conscience and an infantile infatuation with the redirected hypocritical selfishness of idealistic altruism, I’m more inclined to feel pride and pleasure in it these days.
Recognition of an entirety, I’m not fully responsible for, I guess.
Remorse never solidified in me, it clung there for a while, and then slid away leaving only scar tissue in its passing. Disfigurements are the inevitable souvenirs of pressure.
I’ve salvaged whatever remnants of self-respect I could from the corrupting forces of a world that wanted to absorb me into its wholeness and make me a willing member of its entourage, and I now hold them up like a banner of honor. A symbol of waving belligerence in the wind: “I’m still here, damn you! I’m still, fucking, here!” I shout, even if nobody cares but me.