88. Laconophilia

I listen to economists, to political, financial experts, business leaders and analysts, and wonder if there is a limit to puerility.

The lack of inner discipline, of rigor. Of intellectual architecture. Nothing else but frail edifices to house knowledge. Only gut feelings to support arguments. Everything is warm, moist, fuzzy. The science of thinking washed away with liquid justifications, softened, diluted. It drools. A weak, discolored fiction.

And these are our leaders. Directionless. Dangerous. A well-marketed look of pensiveness to hide the fact they don’t have a clue about what they’re saying. Never the strength to perform demanding tasks. Porous memories.

I am angry. Humans were supposed to have been designed in line with the image of God. What’s wrong, then, with our divinities? How could they come up with such limitations. Smallness. Narrowness. Insufficient ideated weight.

I hate it when speakers, writers, bosses treat us like idiots.

Never applaud these people. Never be a follower. See them for what they are. Stare a minute to remember if you must. Then, turn your back. Walk away. Go far.

Yes, be wary of mushy discourses. Of what feels comfortable, contended with anemic explanations. Wet words leaking, spreading sloppy niceties into the brain. Infecting mental functions.

Be careful. Go for what’s icy and severe. For what’s robust. For what sounds tough, unyielding at the touch. For what’s stony, unfriendly. The ruthless. Leave behind what’s gentle and made to please and reassure. That’s a trick. It will decompose you. A lot of sap.

Never fear Sparta, dear. Never. Be a good soldier. A good poet. Create men and women. Not entrapping, beguiling sentiments posing as the songs of powwow.

Love, Laolao