Existential dread threatens to chew me up and swallow me whole, at the same time.
There is no place for me in the Transhumanist 20 minutes into the future.
The semantic trash fire has swelled into a complete deconstruction of language, as it was foretold. It's a Semantic Apocalypse.
"The pain that comes from being expected to remain silent on important matters and perform impossible leaps on others is tremendous, not least because the problems are so evident.
As anyone who has lived under totalitarianism can attest, there is something demeaning and eventually soul-destroying about being expected to go along with claims you do not believe to be true." https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7415169/amp/Religion-political-ideals-replaced-dogma-turned-beliefs-hate-crimes.html
After an attempt at discussing opinions on pronouns with my daughter devolved into a rant and a tantrum, my heart is broken. Each time broken, it seems like it can never be broken so bad again, but as long as we live, it can always hurt more.
I've always related to Zarathustra as he surveyed the cosmic playing field, detached from my body in a flight of ideas while simultaneously immersed one hundred percent in the grinding material wheel. Exaltation and Humility are just another piston whose polarity powers the engine of the World.
The Controllers use their hoard of esoteric information to remain powerful over the horde. They have enacted the ritual of Cremation of Care which has burnt out their core humanity--their moral compass. They have afflicted the population with Identity Politics which have diced democracy like mechanically separated chicken byproducts.
We the people, on the other hand, have the equal rite I call the Creation of Care.
#yourlifematters! so every moment our choices whether to be creative or destructive, willing or willful, influences what becomes of our unique species on a unique planet.
"Increase your footprint!" -Farmer Rishi
Voltaire's mantra, "I will cultivate my garden," seems like the only force keeping me hanging in there, white-knuckling it through Post Modernism.
It's an effort that rewards everyone the more effort and care I put into it. And this year, I have encountered some daunting pests: from strange fungal outbreaks to new insects joining the feeding frenzy and feedback loops.
We've also had to deal with a lazy buck in our rabbitry, setting production back half a year. We got a new, proven breeder, Jack Rabbit, yet must await cooler weather for the does to go into estrus.
The war against meaning and purpose has caused me to swallow my tongue and go mute.
Maybe I am a kind of till-free garden, and layers of mulch must cover me over before my meaning and purpose come to fruition.
