David McElroy

My face is contorted in terror and my mouth is wide open. I’m ready to scream that you’re in danger. That you’re on a speeding train which is about to go off a cliff. But no words come out, because I know you won’t understand my warning.

Imagine you desperately needed and wanted to warn someone that something terrible was about to happen, but the two of you spoke different languages. That’s what this feels like.

My words of warning can coming pouring out of my mouth, but almost nobody will hear. Those who do hear will shrug. Even the ones who find my words interesting — or who might suspect I might be right — will go right about their business. The show must go on.

No matter what I do, the grand entertainment of modern American culture will roll right on without me. This dysfunctional culture has no time to listen to something which can’t be presented in the form of entertainment.

And I’ve discovered that I don’t know how to entertain you while I beg you to learn an intellectual and cultural context which is more terrifying than entertaining.

I tried. I really did. But it just doesn’t work.

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Most people sense something is wrong.

They may not have language for it. They may not be able to explain it. But beneath the distractions, beneath the noise, beneath the endless scrolling and entertainment, there is a quiet unease — a feeling that something foundational has slipped.

We were told we were building the most advanced civilization in history. Scientific. Rational. Enlightened. Smarter than every generation that came before us.

So why does it feel so fragile?

For years, I believed the solution was better arguments. If something was wrong, it could be explained. If people misunderstood reality, clearer reasoning would fix it. If the culture drifted into confusion, the answer was more clarity.

I grew up believing in the power of direct language and linear logic. Declarative sentences. Cause and effect. If something was true, you could prove it.

But somewhere along the way, I began to notice that proof didn’t change much.

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It happens more often than I like to admit. There’s an angry inner voice that seems to have a mind of its own.

“I hate everybody!” the voice hisses angrily in my head.

For years, I’ve joked that there’s a wide-ranging conspiracy to make me a misanthrope — and I fear it’s working. The joke has been my attempt to reconcile two things which can’t be reconciled:

— I choose to love others, for their benefit and my own.

— I hate so many of the people around me every day.

Those two things can’t be reconciled, so I make jokes about it. The more contact I have with humans, the more I feel like a misanthrope — and I hate feeling that way. It makes me feel so wrong inside, but something in me wants to lash out — needs to lash out — as though I’m defending myself.

And I think I finally understand why.

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