Bulltard: Difference between revisions
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A wishfully revisionist habit, since the one thing that cannot define a given period is the crisis that will eventually do for it. Especially if the people of that period have no reasonable inkling of what is coming. | A wishfully revisionist habit, since the one thing that cannot define a given period is the crisis that will eventually do for it. Especially if the people of that period have no reasonable inkling of what is coming. | ||
But these hysterical times may be the exception that proves that rule. This time, we ''do'' know it is coming. It ''does'' fashion our behaviour: no-one with a functioning cerebellum has any doubt ''we are in [[End of days|the end of days]]'', and | But these hysterical times may be the exception that proves that rule. This time, we ''do'' know it is coming. It ''does'' fashion our behaviour: no-one with a functioning cerebellum has any doubt ''we are in [[End of days|the end of days]]'', and that we must therefore make what hay we can before the remaining sunlight blooms into ''supernova''. | ||
There is nothing to be done: our faith in experts is gone. Our [[Blockchain as a service|trust in institutions]] is gone. Our belief in principles is gone. Our hope for the future is gone. No-one understands, or believes, ''anything'' any more.<ref>© Adam Curtis, constantly, between 1995 and 2021.</ref> | There is nothing to be done: our {{plainlink|https://www.chathamhouse.org/2017/03/michael-gove-trouble-experts|faith in experts}} is gone. Our [[Blockchain as a service|trust in institutions]] is gone. Our belief in principles is gone. Our hope for the future is gone. No-one understands, or believes, ''anything'' any more.<ref>© Adam Curtis, constantly, between 1995 and 2021.</ref> | ||
All that remains is our unshakeable collective conviction ''in a total lack of conviction''. This is what now to spurs us all on: the magnetic horror of being pulled by | All that remains is our unshakeable collective conviction ''in a total lack of conviction''. This is what now to spurs us all on: the magnetic horror of being pulled by morbid fascination towards a certain, yet unknown black doom — towards a door that is yet slightly ajar. We are like freshly-infected plague victims, awaiting the onset of symptoms, and acting out a ''danse macabre'' while there is still time: a desperate, decadent, demented tarantella, because we are ''so fucked we might as well spin the wheel of fortune'' and watch it clatter with whatever is left in our pocket — because — ''well, why not''? | ||
Why not just enjoy the obliterated husk of what’s left of our post-historical project | ''Why not'' just enjoy the obliterated husk of what’s left of our post-historical project? | ||
What the hell: buy Shiba-inu | ''Why not'' enjoy the fireworks when it goes up in smoke? | ||
Since, like unharnessed skydivers, we are falling to our certain death, ''why not'' just unclothe and, for the fleeting minutes we still have that are free of the Earth’s surly bonds, just deliriously tumble, free and unchained, optimising our exhilarating final ride? | |||
What the hell: buy Shiba-inu. [[NFT|Mint some dopey tweet]] on the [[blockchain]] and sell it for monopoly money. Go wildly long Tesla — ''who cares''? We’re off the cliff and there are only moments left, so what else is there to do? | |||
This is the ''[[bulltard]]'' era. | This is the ''[[bulltard]]'' era. | ||
Revision as of 12:41, 11 November 2021
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We humans tend to name our epochs in hindsight, by reference to the catastrophe that ended them: “antediluvian”; “pre-pubescent”; “pre-historic”; “pre-crisis”.
A wishfully revisionist habit, since the one thing that cannot define a given period is the crisis that will eventually do for it. Especially if the people of that period have no reasonable inkling of what is coming.
But these hysterical times may be the exception that proves that rule. This time, we do know it is coming. It does fashion our behaviour: no-one with a functioning cerebellum has any doubt we are in the end of days, and that we must therefore make what hay we can before the remaining sunlight blooms into supernova.
There is nothing to be done: our faith in experts is gone. Our trust in institutions is gone. Our belief in principles is gone. Our hope for the future is gone. No-one understands, or believes, anything any more.[1]
All that remains is our unshakeable collective conviction in a total lack of conviction. This is what now to spurs us all on: the magnetic horror of being pulled by morbid fascination towards a certain, yet unknown black doom — towards a door that is yet slightly ajar. We are like freshly-infected plague victims, awaiting the onset of symptoms, and acting out a danse macabre while there is still time: a desperate, decadent, demented tarantella, because we are so fucked we might as well spin the wheel of fortune and watch it clatter with whatever is left in our pocket — because — well, why not?
Why not just enjoy the obliterated husk of what’s left of our post-historical project?
Why not enjoy the fireworks when it goes up in smoke?
Since, like unharnessed skydivers, we are falling to our certain death, why not just unclothe and, for the fleeting minutes we still have that are free of the Earth’s surly bonds, just deliriously tumble, free and unchained, optimising our exhilarating final ride?
What the hell: buy Shiba-inu. Mint some dopey tweet on the blockchain and sell it for monopoly money. Go wildly long Tesla — who cares? We’re off the cliff and there are only moments left, so what else is there to do?
This is the bulltard era.
See also
References
- ↑ © Adam Curtis, constantly, between 1995 and 2021.