People can make-believe of anything: an idea; a time/place; a person; the worth of Brexit. It might be founded on sheer strength of feeling or on the perception that a logical position is providing a complete picture. Checks on reasoning are subsumed into the comfort of confirmation bias. It becomes a feedback-loop of superiority and victimhood, working as a shield against all opposition.
The greater the investment in a position, the greater the requirement for its justification and, the more one justifies an investment, the more one becomes consumed by the need to. This is an ideological dependency developing a religious-like zeal for its own protection. Seeing is believing where believing is seeing: these are now the same thing. Chicken and egg. It doesn’t lead to truths, except by virtue of coincidental overlap – luck – or by lessons learned through the observation of its example – judgement.
And because the cold, hard truths of Brexit are self-evident, either you admit your error, to yourself, at the very least, or you double down and brazen it out, in the hope that denial will buy time and yet save your face. Thus, through fear or cynicism, you set yourself to the mission of converting and recruiting others because, well, safety and righteous correctness in evangelical numbers, right?
I am not talking our country down. You voted to leave. That decision is actively bringing our country down. I am merely observing, reporting and commenting on the myriad dismal consequences of your “will”.
No Brexit is better than a bad Brexit and there is no Brexit that is good.
If this was not sufficiently evident, to you, before the referendum, whether because you were tricked or just did not bother to inform yourself, it bloody well should be plenty evident, by now. It is not my fault that you either cannot see or will not admit this.
I love our country and you have endangered her. It is a poor patriotism that would seek to demand my silence.
Rudimentary Tory tosh
Into popular despot
Of inadequate pricing
He’s the cloying shadow fog
Of the quid pro nada
MoggMentum ad portas
To his alma martyr
He’s a Brexit Pollyanna
Always ultra polite
Bangs the patriotic hammer
Of his god and his Right
Augmented by faith
In his Latinate gob
Puts vicarious blame
On a bigoted god
With a silk hogwash
And the charm of a cilice
See him handing out the crosses
For his god of decrease
He’s the Passion police
Non sequitur ad ignorantum
Honi soit qui you like
But don’t think public office
Is a suitable site
Your antiquated affectations
Are exceedingly trite
And your unicorn worldview
Is a plasticised blight
Your opinion of the People
Is pompous in its spite
And Jacob, your ad hominem
Of god is pure shite.
Obviously, he can believe what he wants and his freedom of speech, I would not seek to take away. Nonetheless, I am horrified that he is so popular with voters and that his popularity within the Conservative Party could give him access to real power.
Let there be many windows in your soul
That all the glory of the universe
May beautify it. Not the narrow pane
Of one poor creed can catch the radiant rays
That shine from countless sources. Tear away
The blinds of superstition; let the light
Pour through fair windows broad as truth itself
And high as God.
Why should the spirit peer
Through some priest-curtained orifice, and grope
Along dim corridors of doubt, when all
The splendour from unfathomed seas of space
Might bathe it with their golden waves of love?
Sweep up the debris of decaying faiths,
Sweep down the cobwebs of worn-out beliefs,
And throw your soul wide open to the light
Of reason and of knowledge. Tune your ear
To all the wordless music of the stars,
And to the voice of nature, and your heart
Shall turn to truth and goodness, as the plant
Turns to the sun. A thousand unseen hands
Reach down to help you from their peace-crowned heights,
And all the forces of the firmament
Shall fortify your strength. Be not afraid
To thrust aside half-truths and grasp the whole.
Love and despair
creep up, seep in
our days and nights
without end save our souls
weep and serve
together making do
and all manner of tears
marching on in the shortness of forever
hold the line hold your nerve
fix and mend