The world is not merely broken. To say so would be to offer a polite euphemism in the face of roaring collapse. No—the world has come unmoored. Its anchor cut. Its compass thrown to the sea. The great ship of civilisation now drifts perilously close to the rocks, captained not by sages nor statesmen, but by charlatans drunk on their own reflections, whispering sweet nothings to a crowd already baying for blood.
Where once our societies were sculpted by principles—chiselled from the stone of reason, discipline, and virtue—we now build them from digital noise and ideological fast food. Our gods are algorithms. Our sermons are hashtags. We no longer speak to each other but at each other, shouting into the void, desperate to be heard above the din of a million other voices, each convinced of their own infallibility. Dialogue, once the lifeblood of democracy and philosophy alike, has been exiled—replaced by tribal slogans and industrial-scale distraction.
It is not that we no longer recognise the truth; it is that we no longer require it. The truth, inconvenient and unfashionable, has been traded for a dozen cheaper idols—spectacle, opinion, emotional satisfaction, and a perverse kind of performance morality, where being seen to care is more important than caring itself.
Take a step back—if you dare—and you will see a panorama of absurdity so grotesque, so farcical, that were it not true, it would make for the finest tragicomedy the Greeks ever wrote.
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