Thomas E. Kurek
I see the sea of dead eyes. I am forced to question whether their controllers are alive, or if these shadows of humans are simply a regressed form of our species. The eyes are the windows of the soul, however, in theirs I cannot perceive anything of substance, which compels me to believe that the soul has vanished from those ever-veritable spheres. Where words and motions can be the instruments of deception, the eyes will foil any pretense.
As I look on, I notice that their motions seem mechanical. I approach them and offer a polite gesture and a kind word, as empathic beings tend to do. Without so much bother as lifting their dead eyes to meet my concerned eyes, they reject my advance with apathetic silence. Yet, their limbs still seem to move, as if a machine has become flesh and a Central Processing Unit has replaced their mind and soul. Can I believe that this creature, devoid of anima, is alive?
Rather, how can this thing belong to the magnificent human race, whose passion has etched into eternity the most wonderful feats? A passion that grudgingly and ingeniously sent man into the void of space. A spirit that mastered communication and analysis of humankind within the works of the great classical writers, Shakespeare, Virgil, Dante, Dickens, et al., capturing human experience so perfectly that they put to shame contemporary authors who use our current form of adulterated English. An anima that grips your heart as great actors like Branagh bring to life such compelling monologues as those found in Hamlet. A passion that erected buildings that touch the sky. A passion that created machines that travel quickly through air, land, and sea. A passion that developed fantastic processes to harness energy and produce the materials required for such complex goals. A determination that developed vaccines to save us from many terrible diseases, and prosthetics that can interact with the nervous system so that the unfortunate can regain functional extremities. A spirit that raised great cathedrals to the sky, and instilled a common purpose and ideal in man, bringing both comfort, humility, and hope to all people under one faith. A passion that once raised a war cry to the heavens, conquering continental Europe, Asia Minor, Britain, and Northern Africa, with sword, shield, fire, blood, and fearless will. Such is the passion that belongs solely to The Creator's creators.
Therefore, these dead eyes do not bode well. If empathy is lost, what place does passion have in our society? How can I worship an ideal, together with my brothers, when they have been taught to worship themselves? What would compel me to put my heart into a sincere piece of literature, or a useful technology, or a life-saving surgery, when I don't care about my neighbors? When I cannot even gracefully accept a polite gesture from a stranger, or extend one on my own accord, why would I want to communicate my feelings to them through a work of art? Why would I want to provide them with a service? Why would I want to come to their aid? Why would I want to create a new technology to make their lives more comfortable? Indeed, if my apathy is so great that it renders me immune to acts of kindness, where is my purpose in this world? Should I perform these acts for money alone? No. I am deeper than that. I want to develop technology to make a fortune, so that I can do things that I'd rather be doing. If I perform this surgery, I will get paid a lot of money so that I can buy more material stuff and be "well off". If I work during the day on the weekend, I can get money so that I can "party" at night. I no longer live for an ideal; I live for stimulation. My actions are devoid of purpose, and my character is devoid of passion. I care only for my stimulation, and care only for those who can provide me with more of it. Once you see my apathy, you will become more apathetic, because apathy is certainly contagious. Thus, like a candle that burns itself until its own wax extinguishes its flame, this indulging, self-centered apathy extinguishes the soul.
This is the society of fast food, drive-in windows, push-button-have-it-done-for-me-now, proudly ignorant, nihilistic, existential, over-stimulated, materialistic, dishonorable lost souls. Divided we stand, every man his own island. A society united by the dollar, and inspired by self-satiation. Where has the passion gone? Has it been swallowed by corporations, governments, and publishers who have thrown ideals to the wind and embraced financial motivation? Can mankind continue to work wonders under these conditions? I say no. These conditions mitigate progress. Infrequently are great feats immediately profitable. Besides, if they are achieved by unmindful drones, set to motion by dollar signs, instead of humble and passionate desires that come from the goal itself, are such feats true victories? The product stands impotent, as false as its creator.
Goals are set to the rhythm of supply and demand in every economy. This is why we have incompetent musicians, inadequate contemporary authors, television judges, biased researchers, and an enormous entertainment industry that squanders money on mostly foolish productions. Instead of pursuing marvelous goals which would be reveled at by colleagues, every single human endeavor is mitigated and robbed of its worth by supply and demand. Thanks to Hollywood, we have a society that appreciates over-dramatization, plot-based stimulation and shock value rather than theme value and character development. Thespians cry injustice to deaf ears, for the society that once valued their art, now values child's play fit for mental pigmies. Skilled musicians are drowned out by the sound of enormous speakers, which makes nature cringe from the pre-recorded sounds of skilled button-pressers. And so in our infinite wisdom, guided by government and societal doctrines, we turn progression into regression.
And so I glance at the dead eyes on the half-naked women in the "big-pimpin'" video as I swallow my lunch at the grill. I wonder why there are people who admire that. Perhaps unenthused, self-centered, apathetic looks along with artificial, over-exaggerated motions are in style and passion, liveliness and sincerity are out. It seems as if I'm the dinosaur here. A dead-eyed worker empties the trash, as one dead-eyed customer cuts in front of someone to get his drink first, and another hands money to the cashier without exchanging one word. Suddenly a girl approaches me and asks with a polite smile, "May I take one of these chairs, if you won't be needing it, please?" Looking into her bright eyes, I return her smile and respond, "Of course you may." She replies, "Thank you." At that instant, my faith is restored. There are still sincere people in this world, animated and passionate, with humility and soul. It's just sad that they are so uncommon. Aldous Huxley was not an author; he was a prophet.