More Resilience

It's so so difficult when you realise that the values and meaning you hold so
dear are the exact opposite of how reality is. This realisation causes grief
and a thorough retreat into one's self, into one's tiny room, and into
worthless nostalgia. It's hard being sensitive, being an empath. Hard to
switch off the sense that unnecessary cruelties keep occuring. I walk past a
homeless person and it kills me. The cement drinkers ('drink a cup of
cement and harden up') have been engineering, for many years now, the
Darwinian dystopia that I always said I'd rather hang myself than live in.
It's a rotten situation but one endures it for now. Is there a tiny space for
the artists and the poets and the feelers? I always hoped I'd find that space
somewhere. All I find now is Meriton apartments and grotesque public-
spaces-useless-without-a-credit-card.
Oh and our bright future of perma-surveillance and sentient robots really
doesn't bear thinking about.
But then again, the coming robot rulers could hardly do a worse job.