There is a kind of desperate madness that overtakes one when one begins to penetrate the veil. It is the madness alluded to by Lovecraft, al-Hazred, and boilerplate horror pulps, the non-Euclidian horror that the nihilists pretend to in their cults of personality and goth angst. It is the veil of meaninglessness. It is the realization of how much of our world, our daily experience, is consensual illusion. Our lives are games played without rules, with shifting markers of scorekeeping, and no final endpoint, only the shifting jockeying for position.
When all is arbitrary, when all is illusion, then what strength and value has convention?
It’s the cold medicine, surely. That is all, just the cold medicine. Your money is worth something, your depictions of gender and race and social class actually have some relevance. Those who admit they play real-world games are fools, while your job, your life, your career – those mean something. Those are real.