You can face the storm that is life head-on, or you can duck. You fix that which is wrong, or you can just pop another Oxytoxin. In a moment of lucid, rational, and utterly inspired brilliance, The Buddha warned us. We are all on fire.
Bhikkhus, all is burning. And what is the all that is burning? The eye is burning, forms are burning, eye-consciousness is burning, eye-contact is burning, also whatever is felt as pleasant or painful or neither-painful-nor-pleasant that arises with eye-contact for its indispensable condition, that too is burning. Burning with what? Burning with the fire of lust, with the fire of hate, with the fire of delusion. I say it is burning with birth, aging and death, with sorrows, with lamentations, with pains, with griefs, with despairs.
Much of what we are told, what we read, and what we are upbraided to believe is just soma. Those who tells us these sugar-coated lies don’t really care if we each burn to the ground. The next dopamine hit, the next endorphin fix, the next sensual pleasure is all that you really need. Reality; they assure us, is for people too weak to handle the really good drugs. If it feels good, you are obviously supposed to do it.
Thereby the demented and empowered control the droning NPC. The soma consists of both a pleasure rush and an anesthesia. The pleasure rush is a hit of self-righteousness. You are one of the good guys by believing #BLM, or in Women’s Rights. It’s better than believing in Women’s Wrongs – they assure the NPC of that. The anesthesia comes from the anonymity of conformal submission. NPCs all like the same Tweets. All are equal; none are different.
All of us burn in the garbage fire of our petty, sensualist desires. You can take a few pills both black and red. It’s the metaphorical equivalent of doing The Stop, Drop, and Roll. The burns still hurt and no ride in an ambulance is ever pleasant. But you know, at least for the nonce; that the auto-conflagration has been contained.
We all know that when you come to a fork in the road, you pick it up. Yet taking that fork in the road doesn’t make you particularly useful to those in charge. While you are fixing yourself, you aren’t a docile servant of consensus or narrative. You smell all the bull-poop in both narrative and consensus and seek out a pasture away from the rest of the vapid cattle.
The other fork in the road is sold as glamorous, but it really is just facile submission to the reality that you will probably be meaningless. The evil elites running Modern Managerial State will find you easy to manage. They might even put a cute gold star on your nose when they trot you out of the veal-fattening pen to !VOTE! or crank out meaningless, but required aggregate demand at The Taco Bell drive-thru.
Make the purposeless nonperson feel good, and you have the son of a sea-biscuit. At least that’s what the narrative is designed for. The drones then all fly in formation. They fly where they are promised it will feel good. Heroin and bestiality are both said to feel good. The narrative would rather you not worry your pretty little heads about whether these fleeting pleasures do anything to assuage the burning and painful wrong of a useless existence.
The NPC is kept distracted by the hits of sensual pleasure. That way they don’t notice something wrong. That way the fire just seems to keep them warm. What the NPC needs to notice about their lives is what Lynyrd Skynyrd sang about when a couple of their bandmates tried to break free of NPC slavery to sensualism.