By James Robinson
I believe humanity is a stillborn creation, for we were killed long before we ever had the chance to live. Aborted by our collective revulsion for reality and its seemingly mundane elements. We instead exist in simulacrums of our misplaced reality. Briefly resurrected within the pages of books, the screens of computer games, the laughable concept of reality television, during our weekends off, and in our imaginations.
We have evolved into proudly solipsistic apes. Tiny walking, talking black holes of self-interest that crush the very light around us. Mirrored prisms within fleshy prisons that filter the whole of reality through the reflection of ourselves, rejecting all else. Distrustful of our own judgment, we graft our limited experience to the historically doomed cumulative knowledge of mankind’s dead, only to reach understandings that alienate us from our fellow man. We then recede into the depths of our ideological foxholes daring anyone to approach so we can shoot them down with our prescribed talking points.
The revolution is impossible because we have found a way to commit suicide from within our wombs.