Time is dying, and so are we

We're scraping by. We've always scraped by, but we're more scrapier now than ever before. This world was not meant for us, and we've finally realized it the hard way. Time does not pass, but rather accumulates; now we're neck-deep in a vast expanse, struggling to stay afloat. Faster than ever before, time is accumulating, and we are drowning. It's hard to know what to do next, or if we'll live long enough to think about it. I'm not wise, so I offer no condolences and soft words, but so, too, do the wise offer no thoughts. Counting is a dying art, especially in time.

Politics is time's neurotic mistress, and as time forgets about her, maybe we should, too. The grand art of electioneering, politicking, stump-speeching, and promising has come to a close; thank you for your patronage, but it's time to give up. Submit to an ever-accelerating time, and maybe it'll stall in the air in time for us to jump off. There is no living to be had in a slow-death. Maybe there will be survival, but we will be too scarred to live again. Maybe we can get by in fast-death, and maybe we can learn to love the pain again; for now, it is too much, and we want it to be over. Just stop the pain!

Time accumulated slowly for me as a child. Moments grew, and they grew with a tenderness not seen since. Touching the hot lightbulb of a neighbor has scarred me permanently. The small discoloration of my right hand comes from the moment when time sped up. Time accelerated for me only in scarring; for the young, it will only accelerate once they hurt. Earlier and earlier, we are hurting. I'd venture to guess that newborns now experience an accelerating time. Their cries bring tears of joy, but they haunt our dreams: time is cruel, and what lays ahead? I don't remember crying as a newborn, but I know that many do: what if their screaming is the cosmic horror, and they are servants of time's pain? The infant who was born in the US while you read this paragraph is an agent of death, and he serves to inflict retribution on humanity for the pillaging of the Earth's surface. I don't imagine myself the angel of death, but what if I am? What if we all are?

How can we live with ourselves, the agents of death? (After all, death is nothing but another name for time.) Some 7% of the entirety of humanity is thinking and breathing now, and now we are led to believe we are all agents of death. Time never accumulated on my shoulders before my great-great-grandmother died, and I never knew her enough to be pained by her passing. I was maybe 7, and as the agents of death must question, what if I led to it? The sickly scent of time shot right through the funeral home, and with a lemonade in hand, all signs point to me being the killer. (Perhaps I was sent from the future to kill in retaliation of the terrible lemonade at that home. We will never know.)

There is no distinction to make between destroying time and submitting to it. Politics is the ultimate anti-submission. We're all hustlers in politics, hoping to buy and sell a little bit of time, here and there, making a quick buck or two. "Let's save for our children, and our children's children," we scream, with no sense of the irony of it all. Time has run out for us, and especially for the future, but yet here we are, trading in a forgotten and worthless currency. This is no time to put on floaties in the ever-rising tides of time; we don't need to drown for the rest of time, clinging to the surface, hoping to find a way out. The ceiling is dropping, the tides are rising, and we need to fall to the bottom. It's no use. It was never any use.

So. Here we are. Politics is a negative feedback circuit, like a thermostat, trying to keep things the same as they were. If things get too out of hand - if alcoholism becomes "too problematic", if our children are too unhealthy, if the world is too mean, or if life is quickening too fast - the political sphere tries to turn it down. That would work, if only things were that simple. By putting in place an air conditioner over a magma pit, we are not cooling down and alleviating the danger. We are merely slowing down the fumes, but time, like magma, will blow. Politics is a stopgap, and one that leaves us worse off than before. Maybe it is best to abandon the tricks that time plays on us, and its falsely nascent smile be called out, because it's our lives we're playing with here.

So, what is to be done? I propose we hasten the destruction of life as we know it. I propose that we form a counter-politics to offset the toxic slow death which politics brings us. I propose that the death of life as we know it can only be assured by actively destroying political goals. Gone is vaccination, gone is social security, gone are food stamps, gone are banking regulations, gone is any accountability or oversight by independent agencies, gone is money, gone is housing, gone is food, and, most importantly, gone is hope. The only way to make it through this is to hasten its destruction; and even if we don't make it through, at least we did not suffer for that long or deeply. At least, not as long or as deeply as a slow death by politics would bring.

Maybe I'm evil for wanting to end the pain that defines modern life. True evil resides in those who want to slow down the pain. Rip the bandaid off: stop being reluctant, and if you can't handle the prospect of it tearing quickly across your skin, get your mom to do it for you.