Perhaps it was the squatter in the White House—the one who gets on famously with the squatter in the Vatican—declaring the celebration of Christ’s resurrection a time for remembering “transgender visibility”.
Perhaps it was when you realized that the Federal Bureau of Investigation is an anti-religious, anti-American, anti-human grouping of fascist goons.
It is a bitter thing to be jolted awake into such a reality. Not long after you wake up, you wish you could go back to sleep again. How nice it was not to know what was going on.
Perhaps it was the day you discovered that that bureau, along with its psychopathic colleagues in the CIA, were running a nationwide election-interference psy-op against the American people—in the name of “protecting our sacred democracy”.
Perhaps it was when your father’s and grandfather’s Navy commissioned the USNS Harvey Milk, a warship named after a homosexual predator-pedophile.
Perhaps it was the first coup against Donald Trump that did it. Or the second one. Or the third one. Or the fourth one. Or the fifth one.
Or, perhaps it was when communist terrorists burning down Black businesses were hailed as “anti-racists,” or when foreign hordes of invaders were lauded as “migrants” and showered with your tax dollars, or when Marxist perverts were certified as “teachers,” or when other Marxist perverts were looked up to as “priests.”
That feeling you once had, of faith in truth, justice, and the American Way—that Reagan Era confidence that complexity, disease, and terror could be bracketed in faraway hellholes: all of that is gone, but without it what is one to do?
At some point over the past decade—or maybe it was earlier—you have woken up. A bioweapon concocted by Chinese Moreaus and Washington Mengeles ravaged the world, and then the companion bioweapon (sanctioned by transhumanist billionaires) started to finish off the first wave’s survivors. But you couldn’t talk about it.
An election was stolen. But you couldn’t talk about it.
Children are being mutilated (and not just inside the womb anymore—all hail the evolution of liberalism). But you can’t talk about it.
Private property is being destroyed and the very notion of private ownership is being erased. But you can’t talk about it.
A cabal of globalists is waging gaywar against a Christian holdout to the “queering of the Donbass.” But you can’t talk about it.
Christians are being targeted—again and again and again and again and again. But you can’t talk about it.
And you rub your eyes and realize that something is very, very wrong.
It is a bitter thing to be jolted awake into such a reality. Not long after you wake up, you wish you could go back to sleep again. How nice it was not to know what was going on. That feeling you once had, of faith in truth, justice, and the American Way—that Reagan Era confidence that complexity, disease, and terror could be bracketed in faraway hellholes: all of that is gone, but without it what is one to do?
If only for an hour or two, you think, it would be so comforting to return to the slumber you once enjoyed. That sweet catatonia was once your whole world. And now. And now. The Houthis and Schumers and grifters and gaslighters are ascendant. Former Manchurian candidates pull the strings of more recent ones. The daughters of war criminals—no, not Lana Peters or Brigitte Höss—hold high office. Those who oppose them are “anti-democratic.” Actual war criminals take to the public airwaves to peddle cheap propaganda. Those who oppose them are “enemies of democracy.” The putative defenders of the law are the worst criminals of all—except for the ones who pay them.
What in the world is going on? Oh, for but an afternoon of respite from it all. And, if that is not possible, then would that there were any kind of numbness that might at least take the place of once-pleasant dreams.
O, catatonia. I acknowledge your charm, but reject your advances. I think I am not alone. It is better to be awake than asleep now, for what is coming is coming either way.
Some achieve this goal, of course. Some still “vote” and believe their votes are counted. Many sense smoke and danger, but keep their heads down and accuse the firemen instead of acknowledging the existence of the fire. At all costs, the establishment must survive. For that is the last keep of the castle. Our delusion depends on everyone’s focusing their attention on the same diversions. There is no president but Joe Biden, and Mike Pence is his prophet. Dissenters are “extremists,” and extremists must be met with the force of the “whole of government.”
On the margins are allowed occasional and symbolic protests. Forego a Bud Light or two. Ban TikTok. But nothing substantial. Do not get to the heart of matters. Do not peer over the slaughterhouse walls.
This is one choice, it is true. But not the one I am making. O, catatonia. I acknowledge your charm, but reject your advances. I think I am not alone. It is better to be awake than asleep now, for what is coming is coming either way. If anyone is still dreaming of the world’s mercy, let him keep dreaming. It is too late to apprise newcomers, and anyway those who have not yet awakened are not accidentally deaf and blind but willfully so.
Those who are awake, though—let us stick together. “Unite the clans,” a wise man is saying. Amen. There are no more distinctions worth making, except the one between those who will die fighting, and those who will die asleep.
--Jason Morgan is associate professor at Reitaku University in Kashiwa, Japan
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