To The Careerist Legions (first letter)

You tell me to be Roman while in Rome. You claim my complaints signal weakness. You do so while hiding your wounds (perhaps from yourself most of all).
Marcus Aurelius was amazed that we could love ourselves more than others while caring about their opinions more than our own. You’ve taken this for granted, using it as the foundation for your cynical machinations. Work no longer matters in and of itself. All concerns lie with how our efforts appear. Lived experience is reduced to what can be witnessed as winning or losing.
You claim to be courageous, finding grace under the crushing indignities of competition, but this is a pose formed out of fear, a masquerade of intellect and creative spirit. A betrayal of purpose, beyond a desperate want of control over perceptions, has emptied us out.  The polis is hollow.
If your empire is now everywhere, the world is in ruins. And yet you still ask me in jest: Why have you come to Rome if you don’t like the Romans?
This civilization is a pseudo-event.