If We’re Awake
We have mistaken this kind of individualism—or underdetermined personhood, you might call it—as freedom. No restrictions. Optional responsibility. Endless choices. I do what I want to do—which includes, of course, the right for a woman to execute another human being growing inside her. We are our own gods, remember, and that means we decide the kind of selves we want to be, which sometimes requires a little murder here or a little murder there.
Saddest of all is that, as a society, we thought this was the ticket to happiness. We thought this kind of autonomy meant living the good life. But it’s not, and eventually everyone will know it’s not.
And that’s what we must keep saying.
We must keep pointing out the absurdity of it all, and we must expose this empty promise of pleasure for the sham that it is. Trying to be our own gods is pandemonium, literally, and killing our children won’t bring the happiness we crave, no matter what Molech says.
We must speak the light of truth into the darkness, and then hold up a better way. We must return upstream and fight again for the soul. This is a hedonistic war, after all, and there is a happiness deeper than what we can manufacture for ourselves, a happiness of which far too many have yet to hear.
So we have work to do in this American Nightmare, and if we’re awake, the crying won’t let us sleep for long.
