Following your own heart-felt, blissful truth.

Of course, it was incumbent upon the New York Times to proclaim God dead, and Nietzsche taking up the slogan himself, said so ruefully, that he would be replaced with something.

"Listen to your parents" became

"Listen to your hearts", and finally, the poison drought:

"Follow your bliss".

And then, noise systematically sandwich smashed into categories and different folders, directories, buildings in the science department.

"Follow your own truth."

Until, at long last, no truth whatsoever, and no life matters particularly.

I reasoned this in part under the auspices of a tempest, with network access down, and my brain left to its own desserts, Epictetus and some other.

At long last, a two cent printed circuit dictating my existence?  I relent and take to the woods, in the Unabomber Bridal Chamber, with an Oliver mechanical typewriter, and plenty of spleen: spleen and caffeine.

And in the meantime, I owe no one nothing, under the Democrats, nothing but to love them: live and let live.

Replacing the essential core of man with something cheap and undignified, perhaps the way of those in Cathay, or something, to do the chop-chop motion, that people can be stacked like cords of firewood drying in the sun, beetles and so forth crawling around on them, that superficial dampness beneath, something of the leeching of lifewater from the earth.

But God was not dead, and in the meantime, our own truths meant precious little when there was advertising time to sell.  Nietzsche would have been impressed or totally galled by how they whore to the sponsors.

But even the spirit American, the romanticists, and the thinkers, dirty little toenails and potato grease on their chins, still: to thine own self....

And then something of the very awareness of the Akashic record, and disappearing peoples of old, and various technologies lost, but tantalizing us, leaving a residue beneath even the numerous sands of time.....

Trying to make a program of life, a downward push on the society, befuddling the Aristocracy and so forth, a communal unhappiness that we butter our cheapest breads with at the morning table: marxism and communism, conflict theory, class warfare, to the extent that we have raided our enemies' cupboards.

That of late, Smithfield, Chinese, celestial, old Cathay, and the eternal churn of bodies, as the world cedes every advantage to the dishonest player, in the name of his own conscience, and the girls are barred from universities, and my dance class begins to meet in secret: things banned by the politbureau, gyrations that they hate so well.

The downward pressure of one's own bliss, the communal dystopia, the grayness and indecency of total equality among the classes of people, and the assistants telling the old one what to say, the old eight-prong king, and the presses running night and day with narrative, and the endless bending to advertisers and the corporate masters, some 20 million thrown at the top, the board, the chowder society, the ballet set.......

Ne hou ching me ming zi...

They were saying just yesterday, if the younger black adults were to support a given party, that given party would have to come across with things that mattered to that particular set of voters.  And the eternal struggle: the engineered balancing of racism versus wide-open borders, the greatest city in the world nearing a fall in the face of indigent migrants....

They balanced this such that no platform is particularly palatable, and is just a line of talk for various outlets.