In mythological terms, we fucked up.
Unbinding Prometheus for the gift of fire is one thing. Unbinding Narcissus - just because he is so good-looking and fun to hang out with - is a mistake.
I share your sense of frustration. In an era of dreg-scraping for ideas, it's hard to remain inspired. I've taken a bit of a wicked and cynical turn in my writings - generally based upon the head-smacking witlessness which suffices for public discourse.
A preponderance of all species ever in existence are extinct, and long before our species rose, too. And so is the fate of civilization and cultures, which tend to go extinct in an untidy sort of way, but for the same reasons - they could not adapt to Reality. One only needs to not breathe for a day, not eat for a year - and the prosperity afterwards is moot, because you done gone.
America seems earnestly committed to march off the cliff into the sea, I fear. 'Nother one bites the dust. And it's a shame, really - we coulda been a contender.
But we live in a labyrinth of mirrors, and the closer one gets to the center, the less one knows about the world. At the center lies the Minotaur, surrounded by the Beltway. Not wicked, indeed - in fact, quite kind; but unknowing of anything outside the Hall of Power, even where the bathroom is. (And using the bathroom after the Minotaur has to be, well, unpleasant.)
So, if you are also beset by the fog of futility when writing, that's okay - at least for you. It's a sign that your horseshit-detectors are working well, and what's out there shouldn't necessarily draw you out of your cave at the first crack of the stick. Think of the Blair Witch Project.
Psychological depression, of which apathy is a glimmer, is a protective device which now does not help us. I believe that it evolved for human existence during the late winter, a profound loss of interest - don't sleep, don't eat, don't care; at a time when there wasn't much to do, eat or care about. Springtime comes, and the torpor lifts - it always comes.
Unbinding Prometheus for the gift of fire is one thing. Unbinding Narcissus - just because he is so good-looking and fun to hang out with - is a mistake.
I share your sense of frustration. In an era of dreg-scraping for ideas, it's hard to remain inspired. I've taken a bit of a wicked and cynical turn in my writings - generally based upon the head-smacking witlessness which suffices for public discourse.
A preponderance of all species ever in existence are extinct, and long before our species rose, too. And so is the fate of civilization and cultures, which tend to go extinct in an untidy sort of way, but for the same reasons - they could not adapt to Reality. One only needs to not breathe for a day, not eat for a year - and the prosperity afterwards is moot, because you done gone.
America seems earnestly committed to march off the cliff into the sea, I fear. 'Nother one bites the dust. And it's a shame, really - we coulda been a contender.
But we live in a labyrinth of mirrors, and the closer one gets to the center, the less one knows about the world. At the center lies the Minotaur, surrounded by the Beltway. Not wicked, indeed - in fact, quite kind; but unknowing of anything outside the Hall of Power, even where the bathroom is. (And using the bathroom after the Minotaur has to be, well, unpleasant.)
So, if you are also beset by the fog of futility when writing, that's okay - at least for you. It's a sign that your horseshit-detectors are working well, and what's out there shouldn't necessarily draw you out of your cave at the first crack of the stick. Think of the Blair Witch Project.
Psychological depression, of which apathy is a glimmer, is a protective device which now does not help us. I believe that it evolved for human existence during the late winter, a profound loss of interest - don't sleep, don't eat, don't care; at a time when there wasn't much to do, eat or care about. Springtime comes, and the torpor lifts - it always comes.
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