Everything is a matter of course. This should be shocking to us but it isn’t.
No holiday is a holy day. Labor Day, Martin Luther King Day, Veteran’s Day, Thanksgiving, all sanctioned by the state, are all purely days off and, as such, are nothing but business as usual draped in a slightly different garb. We replace work schedules with children’s schedules, swap personal phones for work phones, and pretend that any of this means anything.
It means nothing.
This is what it’s like when everything is a matter of course: the sun rises and sets on us here in Flatland; every day resembles the last with minor details changed, those we use to light up our little psychodramas; nothing–no event, no hierophany, no miracle–stands out in its luminosity, numinousness, or heterogeneity. Meanwhile, we shuffle about in our self-important busynesses, pretending that we’re actually alive.
We’re not and we don’t know what being alive is. When the cosmos was burned and the divine hanged, we forgot how to celebrate. For note this well: to celebrate is to sing the praise of Reality.
And we Last Men are stuck here, without knowing it, in unreality. Welcome to the dollhouse.