|
When machine becomes the measure of man, the soul dies. No identity is free of guilt, pain, and imitation. “I hate myself, I hate the world.” When that is square one, it can be hard to parse how music is making you internalize even more systemic self-loathing. The world is disgusting, filthy, rotting away, and our poor psyches, our poor selves, are dying with it. We are a parody of ourselves, when we rest we are a parody of productivity, when we wake we are a parody of the mechanical. we will perish in the face of the mundane. We will die in the eye of the storm. Our anger and our resentment dissipating into the atmosphere. There is no hope under our system. There is no hope under any system. We will die swearing oaths and signing contracts. There is no hope in tipping the scales, there is no hope in disrupting the natural order, mediocrity and genius are equally useless, we eat and will be eaten.
|