Angst of the Modern Horrors

 

The horror is all too real, and its name is angst.

The most succinct definition of angst is simply existential anxiety, the loathing of one's own being, the sense of utter fear with every step one takes. Angst is a gnawing, grinding, crushing worry. It wraps you in a sense of overwhelming futility as you feel you're slowly, inexorably, relentlessly being pulled towards some horrible fate. You dread your life and despise your eventual death.

While the terrors of demons and devils and the other horrors I write about are profound, it is this daily dread, this angst of many colors, that truly torments people on a regular basis.

Angst is the constant companion of the modern era. And why would it be otherwise? We are surrounded by so much uncertainty about the future that it can often be difficult -- some would say even impossible -- to feel we're on stable ground, to say nothing of the constant violence and hatred we see everywhere. Our lives are ever on a knife's edge, and we fear plunging into the dark abyss surrounding our existence.

But the modern era is hardly the first epoch in human history in which people look into the future with dread, nor is it even the most violent, so why is the horror of existence so prevalent now? Why is there a constant increase in suicides over the past twenty years, with a spike in the past fourteen? Why are self-reported levels of depression, anxiety, and anger higher than ever? Why are we surrounded by feasts and rich banquets yet feel like we're starving?

There are many reasons to make this fear a constant weight chained to our souls. 

It is because now we fear the shifting sands under our feet might be swept away in a torrent of sudden change, whether these are revolution, or environmental destruction, or crushing economic suffering. It is because we are isolated and alone -- and while the lock-downs of this year haven't helped that, it didn't actually cause it -- so that as we suffer, we feel like we suffer alone, trapped in an inky black void of nothingness in which we shriek for help but hear naught but the echoing chorus of our own wails. 

It is because, even when interacting with others, we often lack that deep, meaningful connection people need so much. We float through life, adrift in a misty, gray hellscape rather than plugging in and truly connecting with others to live the vibrant life we all ache to have. Because of this, we toil away mindlessly, failing to develop the intimate relationships we humans are designed for. 

It is because we know the world is stacked against us to the benefit of a very select, powerful few, the same people who constantly tell us to conform, to reflect all their opinions exactly, and to just shut up and be thankful for the scraps they allow us to have. It is because there is a constant, mind-numbing hammering of sameness being pounded against our brains, to be alike, think alike, and act alike, all because it serves the agenda of that small elite.

It is because there is a great chasm between what people say -- all human life is precious -- and what we do -- well, some lives are precious, but some lives are just an inconvenience or a nuisance, or they're too expensive, or they just don't deserve to live. It is because our lives are without meaning, without a transcendental higher purpose, and so our existence seems futile and useless. 

It is because we live in a world in which greed and selfishness have always been a hallmark of human life, but it has now been raised to a level of corporate functionality. Long have we been gifted at ignoring the plight of others, of choosing greed rather than generosity, but it has recently become official policy, even lauded as the way to greater wealth, more possessions, of getting deeper into the trap that tells us joy is to be found from the things of this world. We are either the victims of this hard, cold mindset, or we participate in it by giving ourselves fully to the horrors of consumerism. 

And, in the end, it is because you have been lied to. You know this in the deepest level of your psyche, but without being able to say how, or by whom, or even about what. Despite this, you still know, as if on an instinctual level, that you are being lied to, and have been your entire life. It is because, at some point, you start to realize that so much of our modern life is nothing but a charade, an act, a Potemkin village of beautiful perfection hiding a foul, twisted nightmare under it.

I write extensively on the terrors of the Atrocissimus. This angst, this grinding hatred of one's own life, is its hallmark, its crowning achievement. 

The horror is all too real, and its name is angst.