Hear the protestors chanting on the streets, their words amounting to this: “The last great oppressors are our better instincts.”
In reality, there has never been more freedom, and that is a big problem when combined with the widespread repudiation of both learned and inherited instinct. When the animal does not know what to do and is also not led, beware the hawks overhead.
Their lives are going badly, they sin against any number of forgotten and barely remembered gods. They call it courage, not growing up. Their pride calls it charity, never taking anything, any meaningful responsibility, on. Their grandfathers made time for prayer; they, however, believe in nothing and sleep in on Sundays, sleeping in, as a rule, being a core part of their identity.
The collective unconscious, whatever that once was, has been drowned out. What passes for passion these days results from the desperation to quiet anything primordial, essentially and traditionally human, that manages to briefly break through the otherwise all-consuming din.
When you sense more than you know, you harbor within yourself your own greatest foe.
Oh oversocialized hordes, your new barbarism is characterized by unchecked sensitivity. The meaningless life projects the enemy it is, the soul choked out of your inner life, hallucinating deputized tyranny everywhere, that which is only truly native to yourself.
You doth protest too much.