We are the latter sons of history. We are all Benjamins.
We are the children of the postwar, postboom, postmodern. The world was already here when we got here.
Naturally, we trend conservative, though a conservatism that incorporates some of the victories our parents fought in the culture wars when the world still seemed new —
Now, newness itself is old. Now, we are postnew. We are that which comes after.
History is written looking forward from the past. Our age is the age of exhaustion — where we do not seem up to the challenges that face us. Weimar, someone whispers. Berlin, 1932. Post. Post. s
Art doubles back on itself. Baudrillard’s map becomes the focus. We watch movies to learn how to live. Our lives are rom-coms and then sitcoms and then tearjerkers like The Bucket List. We die in hospitals. We are buried with formaldehyde (new car smell). Post. Post. Post.
A thirty minute drive takes us out of our suburbs and cities and into the last few fragments of wilderness that still persist in this postanarchy — rips in the fabric, chaos theory blooming admist our local stands against entropy.
We know the age of the sun, and our calculations tell us when it will die. The universe too — looks now like it will burn out like a coal and sink into coldness. The scientists call it Heat Death. The Heat Death of the Universe. We are alive. We still live. Obama calls for hope on the lawn of the nation in Washington, two hundred and a score years later but we question. The future is in flux — postcertainty. Postsafety. Sound the alarms. It’s getting hot in here. People are banging at the door. The children don’t read. Postoptimism, postliberalism. Post. After. Next? Post. Postnext, posttomorrow, posthope. Post.