Saint Paul knew us best when he called us Children.
We are much worse than that, however;
We are fools.
We praise and erect to the highest courts in our land princes and kings of fools.
We deign to call these men our leaders simply because they are the most debased and vile;
The more senile they become, the more lavish praise we heap upon their heads.
We vainly provoke war when we might otherwise seek peace.
We call this “strength” when it plainly weakens us all.
But we have not eyes to see it.
We willingly lie beneath the dangling sword of Democles and smile at it, believing it to be a weapon we might harness.
We disregard truth and ignore facts; we choose instead to swallow fanciful lies.
We prefer sweet-smelling untruths to the harsher reality of veracity.
One is a siren’s song; the other is a bitter medicine to heal our wretchedness.
But we do not wish to be healed!
We do not seek truth.
The darkness hides us. Light is vile to our sensibilities.
We are children living in darkness; we are savage fools…
We ignore Cassandra and the dire warnings she begs us to consider;
We ignore the storm clouds on the horizon because they bother our self-made plans.
Like infants, we guzzle down poisoned honey simply because it is sweet; we blissfully ignore its deadly effects.
Truth and reality are our own devices—our own clay to mold or abuse as we see fit.
We live in Gomorrah, content to satisfy every impulse we desire;
Our child-leaders spur-on our epicurean natures and change the meaning of words to suit our fancies.
We even relabel the monikers of our sex, as such words are meaningless before the altar of debauchery.
We parade loose girls who would call themselves boys, and grown men pretending to be women, in front of our innocent children to help normalize the abhorration;
We delight and dance before the golden calf we have constructed in the desert.
We children are wretched things.
We debase our own currency and delight in the riches we create.
“Look how rich you and I now are!” we sing as we bathe in fiat.
“Look at the engorged wealth we have made!” as we trade certificates in a Den of Thieves.
Dear Hubris, you bathe us in your boundless love; you wash us with oil.
Our paper is worthless.
Just like our souls.
We have inflated away all meaning.
We have traded in our priceless jewels so we might bathe in the mud with swine.
We are foul.
We are Man.
