We wait and think and doubt and hate.
How does it make you feel?
The overwhelming feeling is rage. We hate ourself for being unable to be other than what we are. Unable to be better.
We feel rage.
The feelings must be followed. It doesn’t matter whether you’re an ideologue or a sensualist, you follow the stimuli thinking that they’re your signposts to the promised land. But they are nothing of the kind. What they are is rocks to navigate past, each one you brush against, ripping you a little more open and there are always more on the horizon. But you can’t face up to that, so you force yourself to believe the bullshit of those that you instinctively know to be liars and you repeat those lies to yourself and to others, hoping that by repeating them often enough and fervently enough you’ll attain the godlike status we accord to those who tell the lies most frequently and most passionately.
But you never do, and even if you could, you wouldn’t value it, you’d realise that nobody believes in heroes any more. We know that they only want to sell us something we don’t really want and keep from us what we really do need.
Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe we’re getting in touch with our condition at last. It’s horrible how we always die alone, but no worse than living alone . . .
—Irvine Welsh
—found in Filth (1998)