[ad_1]
Welcome to Dystopia, a world that resembles the most anxiety-provoking of fictions. The future that evokes your nightmares is here, it is now.
I write and constantly interrupt myself to see the parade of floats on the homepage of the New York Times, titled “Russia invades Ukraine”. I throw chronicles in the trash as quickly as I lay them. My subjects suddenly seem derisory to me. Fragile as eggs.
The pandemic has changed our relationship with neighbors by turning us against each other, to the benefit of a few manipulators. The world of techno speaks only of the metaverse while the real is sinking, California is burning, the polar ice cap is melting visibly and people consider Éric Duhaime more than an agitator. In Dystopia, the plagues multiply.
Interior — night: I hear my fiancee crying. It has nothing to do with her cancer or with the fact that, to protect her, we have seen almost no one for six months. She just finished the novel Stunning, by Richard Powers. It’s a book about loss. That of the beings we love, but especially of the world as we have known it. The end of innocence. For good this time.
The finale is a screwdriver stuck in the heart, which we would like to dismantle, moreover. It hurts too much, these days, when you let it run.
I ended this book of painful intelligence by saying to myself: if I were a young adult today, I would never have children. Their lucidity is too cruel for themselves. They see the world falling apart, without having the capacity to act as if nothing had happened, to take refuge in the emptiness of Instagram, conspiracy theories, dope or TV shows.
That we dare to limit their screen time is also sadism.
We should rather tape them there, so that they see something other than their terrifying future while all they can do is melt from the inside. Like permafrost. Instead of methane, pure anguish emanates from this cruel thaw.
The shrinks no longer provide. The teachers don’t understand each other. The parents come out completely bloodless from two covid years. Obviously, the brand new kitchen was not enough. Anyway, they are still waiting for half of their household appliances. Blame it on the now proverbial supply chain breakdown.
Cryptocurrency plays with the stock market. The stock market, with geopolitics. China sends a Uighur to light the Olympic flame and everyone is happy to play in the tyrant’s snow. IKEA is extending its hold on Europe’s last great ancient forests as the world’s largest furniture producer. Guilty: I write this with my ass well planted on a chair bought from the Swedish giant of domestic happiness. Or is it domesticated happiness? The one we locked up between four walls to better make ourselves believe that we could put it in our hands and respond to the injunction to be happy all the time or else to buy what our decor lacks to achieve it ? ” Life is short, filled with stuff sang the Cramps. Their poetry was as sparing as it was just.
Our phones and computers spy on us everywhere in Dystopia. Hackers cripple services and rob our banks. Petrocratic leaders have a journalist murdered and put the pieces in suitcases, and we forget about him a few months later. Trump launches his social network that bears the name of “truth”, a word that no longer means anything. Ordinary people are calling for the killing of elected political leaders because they want to be able to eat their “frette” toast at Normandin, not vaccinated, not masked.
In Dystopia, everyone sings the blues. Or with Jimmy Hunt: “The world is crazy, crazy, crazy, my kitty. »
Me ? I watch the bombs explode in the Ukrainian night making me believe that they are giant fireflies.
I invent for myself a world to put on top of the world to forget that we are all accomplices, all idiots, at least a few minutes a day. All trying to justify our ideological contortions, trying to flesh out our convictions, while we are doing the exact opposite of what we know to be right.
We are still whistling as we move towards nothingness. But it is no longer unconscious. It’s to give us a bearing, en route to the only possible destination in Dystopia. We whistle so as not to be devoured by fear as we walk towards darkness. Or to imitate the sound of bombs. Because the silence of our slow self-destruction is less violent, but sometimes deafening too.
[ad_2]
Source link
