The revolution took place everywhere, though it didn't happen the way we expected it to happen at all. Everywhere whatever was released, was set free from its meaning, essence, value, reference, its origin and its purpose and is still functioning, but the idea has died out a long time ago.
Nothing (not even this God) disappears anymore because of the ending or death, but because of multiplying, of the excess and the ascending indetermination.
For us everything is predictable, we have excellent means of analysis but no means of condition. We live theoretically beyond our own incidents. Hence, the deep melancholy.
In other times and other strange cultures people have lived and still live down casted by destiny. We live down casted for the absence of destiny. Anything that comes to us is coming from ourselves only. Each one carries the burden of responsibility of one’s own life. Unsubstantial utopia. A person should be transformed into a servant of one’s identity, will, responsibility, desire, to control all one’s circuits and all circuits of the world that are intersected inside one’s genes, nerves and thoughts. Servitude unheard of.
The world is diabolically informed about oneself and one’s desires. Everything is so simple that he who proceeds disguised becomes laughable.
The end of mysteries.
Jean Baudrillard - La Transparence du Mal