Everyone wants to be defined by something, but more often than not, cultures flock to an objective, standard, or movement that has previously agreed upon standards; that is to say, it is the subject who flocks to the object in order to be defined by the object itself, thereby drowning the subject in a sea of meaningless catch-phrases, trademarks, visual images and catchy slogans. Our culture is more content to listlessly sit idle with their gadgets, cheap entertainment and mind-numbing media than confront self.

The answer is quite simple: they haven’t the courage to confront self because they’re discontent with their own identity and hence, they would rather have no identity than one that makes them uncomfortable. This is one of the many manifold problems with Americans today: we are addicted to comfort. But what if reality wasn’t supposed to be comfortable? On the contrary, true reality is supposed to be uncomfortable: to be difficult. So what does it all matter? I suppose I’ve been struggling with finding my self of belonging in this world; to be sure, I have been blessed beyond imagine with so many things, and I praise God that I’ve been gifted with an amazing woman to whom I am going to marry in four months, but still I feel angry at everyone and no one in particular. It’s as if my raging isn’t directed at anyone on purpose, for if it was, I would quickly become a martyr, and that is precisely what this age needs: a martyr.

We are too infatuated with ourselves to notice any difference anyway. Socrates was put on trial and sentenced to death quite precisely by this same spirit: self-enamored mob rule. The media entertains with inaccurate broad brushes, stroking the public be means of catch phrases, slogans, and images, and the individual is ridiculed if the slightest notion of, perchance, inaccuracy or opposition is mentioned.

We will not all die heroes, we will die martyrs

The spirit of the age is brisking forth historical movements in dialectical fashion as the thesis, antithesis, synthesis continues its culmination towards eschatological finality; but lo! culture hasn’t the slightest clue, and in the end, I will be laughing tears of sorrow. I do not care about your meaningless life and your grave, futile, and utterly trivial endeavors. I’m sick of the noise, and I hear you speaking, but I could not listen if I wanted to, because verily thou art not saying one meaningful thing.

The man who is content to speak about the weather is the man who is content to tell the world how shallow and depraved he really is.

My self is one that is content with the silence; silence that is so deadly, powerful, and dangerous to those who are wont to being busybodies. For they hurry and scurry hither and thither, making appointments and running errands, all the while they are, on the contrary, not actually going anywhere or accomplishing anything except intoxicating themselves with themselves. For this is the spirit of the age: to be drunk on self. Any sobriety of the aforementioned is seen as renegade, dangerous, and meticulous, but that is quite precisely the antidote it takes to create a hero.

And so we turn back to the drawing board, back to the laboratory with a new found sense of identity, understanding, and desire. Burn the ingredients at high temperature; liquify the man and reduce him to nothing until, behold!, the spirit of the true poet, the true philosopher, the true self can be born into a world of decay, decrepitude, and dismay for one and one purpose only: authenticity. His life will be short, but it will be noble.

I haven’t the slightest clue of my purpose; but until it is discovered, I must rage against my self. Wherefore? Because it is becoming more and more apparent that no one else will. Until that time, leave me alone until I fetch for thee. Remember, that thou art too busy anyway for serious thinking and contemplating. For such thinking requires not a busy schedule, but a lack thereof. For silence is the necessary ingredient, and time is her intermediary. If one is gentle enough, they can caress you unto new paths; nay, old paths that have hitherto been left untrodden by those who felt it sufficient to abandon existence for entertainment.

O Lord, please save us all.

-b