Displacing Reality

Would spectators of the Grammy awards program allow an individual to worship Satan in their living rooms? In person, no. Through a medium, yes. The cause of this oddity is audiences conflate form with substance. The reasoning is goggle-boxes generate remote simulation. On this predicate, the substance intrudes while people relax.

Persons with no interest in visiting gruesome crime scenes will follow the tv camera (not the operator) to a disclosed homicide location. A person places a “No Soliciting” sign outside their home, goes inside and subjects themself to spates of sell-a-vision marketing. The right hands of spirited Americans clutch hot dogs as opposed to their chests during broadcasts of the national anthem. Notwithstanding, patriots watch the small screen deriding public dissenters—spicy mustard gilding their chins.

If you’re ignored in person, send your message through a medium. The recipient still may not care for it, but they will entertain it; allow penetration. As cited individuals follow the camera lens void of consideration of the paid camera worker, director, editor, and owner. Analysis of decisions made by merchants to regale in vice connotes a warped perspective. Thus, ratings plummet, showing the success of collaborators in realizing the subversion of the industry and demoralization of society.

Gross pride in favorable American styles by proportion limits apt shame considering the unfavorable examples. Double agents profit on this self-motivation. Should a child’s marks in school decline, surely, a parent, worthy of the name, would focus most on those flops to elevate performance. Conversely, any intent respecting this nation’s failing grades invites vitriolic statements like “anti-American.” Loyalty towards the state displaces intelligence—ease buying the basics as purposed by the municipal stifles inquiry. Hence, loyalists embody the American daydream: truth is gentle as a feather, resembles material expansion, parallel feelings of bliss. Alas, beings motivated to transcend visceral compulsions on this pale earth attend isolation, adorn disguised shackles. Indeed, they’re rationed minimal attention; glanced at with contempt. “Truth is forever on the scaffold. Wrong forever on the throne.” ~James Russell Lowell.

Hand-written laws from the past distinguish right and wrong, yet people persist in drumming up more by raising gender, ideology, and ethnicity to singular heights; migrating away from the center. Hate—the common denominator carries all vicious attacks. On balance, if there are fifty homicides committed, then fifty prosecutions should ensue; no deference to peculiar, superfluous designations. It is pride that leads people astray, straining to extort honor from disgrace. Absurd! The woeful, hapless victim sentiment is sheer pretense. Black Lives Matter, for instance, sourced shame for treasure (A Prosperity Hostile). Should I die violently at the hands of the police, I trust my intimates will prevent the collectivist scavengers from feasting on my individual remains; stifling repose, stimulating unrest; abrogating order and decency.

Proud human beings venerate such base things as nationality, race, gender—regard them as achievements rather than grants—blinding them from patent realities. Evil—to include idiocy—does not discriminate; it shelters in all nations and peoples. Glorying in material substances is a retrograde action; we relegate ourselves near to the ground, finding comfort in carelessness. Unable to make that great leap of faith and finally separate ourselves from the brute beast. Can deliverance result from such lapses?

Conscience, the written law in our hearts, should be the focus, yet we search in vain for answers elsewhere, failing to acknowledge flagrant veracity, as we dare not point the proverbial finger inward—reputing truth as an outlaw. The institution of policing, for instance, saddled with shame for violations of the social contract. What about the paramount institution of humanity’s violations of the same? Alas, willful ignorance halters the spirit.

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