They tell us we should be resistant to the things that hurt.
Instead of ambition, resignation.
Instead of driving, being cruelly driven.
Even resilience is a kowtowing of unkindnesses: a flock of this century’s birds, p’raps; or maybe a mebbe of kinda idiotic nerds.
All I know is that, quite after all, both places and people – more than I used to think: even only yesterday, even only in this curiously weirdsome hey-ho – do have something seriously in common. And just as there are wrong places for people like me, so there are wrong people for people like we.
And where these wrong people meet and converse, and all conversation becomes fabulously terse, and tolerance a seance of total disbelief, then in the absence of sensibility and simple good sense there is little to do but to build up the fences, so that sitting in the middle becomes impossibly painful: and so no longer shall I kindly onboard these everythings yous tend to, and want to, and like to dumbly say.