The pervasiveness of mainstream
untruths plays havoc with my nervous system. Conjuring reality before
my tilting mind, before these tired eyes, my bleeding ears;
gaslighting me with a relentless waterboarding of certainties, of
definites.
My symptoms are minor; I care not for
the corporate induced lies, the upholding of existing power. There
are few among us truly immune to the snare of those architects of
reality, those arbiters of
What Is,
who seek to rob you of your precious fluids, to distract you from all
that is useful. Even those who are active in politics cannot begin to
liberate themselves from the games of our corporate overlords,
leaping to the heroic defence of the current fashionable psychic
victim. Every counter argument is one step away from one's political
goals. To decry corporate lies is to conform entirely to corporate
authority, dedicating one's wasted efforts to whatever the machine
wants you to talk about, forsaking your true voice for a never ending
battle of nuance and arrogant misinterpretation.
The truth is, you
need the authority of corporate news. You cannot even distinguish
your ideas from any official narrative. Political bloggers, taking
pride for their outspoken views, what are they but mere political
commentators?; columnists seeking payment for opinion. The left does
not write the news; it only comments on the second hand views
conjured psychically from within the rabid furies of the right.
But the right
inhabit a worse condition, the supporters of which are incapable of
distinguishing their own opinions – even their identity – from
corporate propaganda. Assimilated into that psychic inferno, they
cannot see the manipulation at work: how duped they are. They cannot
perceive how their every lingering notion stems from some corporate
think tank, disseminated subtly in conversation like an inkling of a
genius, a ghost of a flavour, gently dawning on the raptured mind,
the ideas are eased into the memory banks, and wilfully mistaken for
real insight.
Investing
their entire belief system in the hatred and bigotry and nonsense
explanations, the right are raped par excellence,
never pausing to reflect upon the blatantly-bullshit, upon the
pre-school economics.
I see
this. I see this every time I speak to a Tory voter. When the
corporate machine says jump, the right wing jump. Thus, it is not
only unquestionably accepted that the social democrat Jeremy Corbyn
is scary, or a
communist, or that Theresa May's
shocking incompetence is actually a noble struggle,
but the same words, the same phrases even, spoken from our news
channels become the words delicately formed in the mouths of the supporters of the
right.
Like clinging
infants, unwilling to grow up, those on the right wait for instruction
from their psychic overlords, craving food, to suckle, to latch onto
that offered nipple, that teat of transcendence, to feed, and receive
all the truths, all the guidance they need; so that they can
weaponise their humiliation, so they excuse all the failings clearly
laid out before them, absolving themselves from their dirty
association with the criminal acts and the failings of the nation.
Psychic Baby Food.
Over and out for
now, guys!
xxx
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