Ongoing twilight of my idolatry

I seem, to some, to have settled down, become more reverent, less sociopathic.

No.

Never in my life have I belonged[1], time and again abandoned[2]; routinely deprived of a sense of purpose[3], always robbed of hope[4].

Now.

Society’s greatest gift to me has been to withhold from me it’s greatest gifts.
1. I do not, and have never, belonged: yet I’ve survived; and now without any allegiance to, without any dependence on, any flailing, failing, clamoring, conniving, collapsing collective — I can think, and I can speak, and I can help. Finally.
2. No fear in me, ubiquitous to them, that I’ll be abandoned: I have survived despite concerted spite.
3. No mediocre scents of per-pose disguise, to me, any noxious wretched rot: I have reasoned what’s right, even (provisionally) what Is; now no temptation, great or expedient, transcends my expectation for evidence.
4. My hope, not robbed but rather culled, tested, spurred to grow:  I can now hope without begging, even without expectation.

I’ve not settled down; I am still irreverent, still as sociopathic as ever. Yet, the Norm now so brands minds with such Progressive, neurotic, gradual suicide that the sociopathy in me that now stands out is 180 degrees from history: I am a sociopath for articulating what was Ethics, Utility, Consistency, Community, Common Sense — but now is only Old and Inconvenient.

Still, as the freshly condemned emerge from their cultural cocoons, into chilling charring disillusion, limping near to me, disoriented discarded dis-eased, I can say, simply and honestly, “Good for you.”

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