Grand Show

Everyone, without exception, takes themselves far too seriously. Maybe not in this particular moment, while nothing eventful is happening to trigger a reaction, but surely soon. When something does happen and it presses on a sacred cow that we hold to ourselves, we either react with expressions of polar emotions or otherwise in fits of excessive tension which wastes huge reserves of our energy. We rush, blow our fumes, twist and turn anxiously on our seats, holding our breath, and all of this with an air of conviction. The social order demands that everyone dance to a certain tune of self-importance, always playing a part to an audience we imagine to be watching, so that it is plain to see from the surface of our behaviour that we are indeed valuable. This in turn expects from the social order that it shower us with respect. Yet for those with eyes to see, it is all a joke of a pretentious bubble which rests only in our mutual imagination of what life should, ought, must, and therefore will be. A sane man, finding himself bound within a world of theatrical display, plays his role out of necessity — but all the time, or to whatever extent he can muster, he resists falling under the hypnotic snare which makes everyone else believe that this grand show is actually real.


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