Are you here in the moment? How was lunch? Are you alive? Your digital footprint is transmitted into space. Your tweets and Instagram posts flash before your eyes as you die; there is probably an Instagram slideshow for it. How many likes would you get when they remember you? How many notifications will be thrown into the pyre?
One more hit. Online, online, online. Online in the eternal moment. A lingering presence, embalmed by data. What is your sign? Available. Busy. Don’t exceed the limits of words and ideas. Surveillance begets freedom. The timeline is a reflection of what the algorithms deem significant to you. The system is an extension of your cognitive faculties: a hyperactive self-awareness.
The medium is the message.
What is it about going back? What is the allure of returning? Something out of nothing… for eternity.
Home, the place whence your memories originate, before the beginning.
Something out of nothing. Life gives rise to life. A sentient being suffers then dies. The womb incubates evil.
Can you please stop? I want to find myself. I want this ephemeral life to mean something. Can you please let me go back to make it right? Are our wails wasted in this isolated system?
A splatter on the canvas of creation observes itself and wonders, “what am I?”
“You don’t love me the same way I love you, and that’s the end of us.”
“How dare you not notice all the times I approached you inside my head? how dare you not react to my inaction?”
“Let’s be honest but not too honest. Allow me to gaze at my reflection in your eyes and I will see the real you.”
“Why won’t you stop being more than what I want you to be?”
It’s better this way. Enough light to illuminate your next step and nothing more. Be grateful you have it. Why know more if it means the demolition of your edifices? You have spent years erecting the pillars. You need to reside somewhere. The inside is tumultuous and capricious, and you need shelter. Why destroy your creations for the sake of intellectual pride? Pride… like the devil. The pleasure of knowledge; the apple. That’s when you fall. That’s when you reach for one thing and lose it all. He whispers misguided commands: be inside your head and think! Think yourself into an everlasting slumber. Step back to admire your creation and then watch it tremble as the earth devours it.
Heirs of the earth, nature’s peculiar children, progenitors of metaphysical destruction: despair.
Reach around her waist to touch the keys of the piano. What happened to all the things that were? Lean your head against her shoulder and sway to the composition of neurons inside your brain. Every touch of a key plays a note of your depression; you play for hours. You play until your feelings erode. You play until she’s gone.
You play until you wake up.
Romantic, isn’t it? To abuse what’s supposedly curing you. To unconsciously occupy your body. To feel detached from what makes you human. Romantic because it’s different and often gets mistaken for spirituality. Divine providence reveals itself to you in the numb haze. To be drunk and confidant or high and pseudo-intellectual is preferable to being conscious and going through the days with a malign mass in your brain and a slow agonizing pain emitting from your heart. Order of the day: drugs first thing in the morning to send a jolt of electricity into your system. Your worn-out and depleted body can no longer start itself up. Drugs at the end of the day to reward yourself for successfully remaining alive. Drugs when you’re sick from all the drugs you’ve been taking. Drugs to alleviate the side effects of other drugs. A deluge of stimulants and depressants ravaging your body, reshaping your psyche every day.
Romantic, isn’t it? To die at the hands of your creation. An AI that’s more human than you. Create a god in your image and keep perfecting it, then take its hand into oblivion. Dwell inside your shell while the machine takes care of your body: the perfect form of substance addiction.
“And then he gave them consciousness and condemned them to life,” the unwritten words that should have been.
Grab a chair and sit down. Let’s talk about oblivion. Let’s discuss the numerous ways someone can kill you by making you live. Let’s argue about the sublime and the meaning of beauty while reflecting on depression and genocide. Tell me stories of fine, sunny days when people are executed as the world tilts a tiny bit towards evil. Share the agony of not knowing what to feel and ending up feeling everything. Obsess over time as we watch ourselves slowly decay. Sip the comfortable silence as we exchange the remnants of humanity.
Somewhere in space, a red giant is collapsing.
I saw you in a memory
I met you in a dream
The proximity is unbearable and too tempting. You run away to escape her. You run away to escape your own thoughts. As always, she finds you in the most sacred place in your mind. You realize there’s no escape. You run from her into her; you are running from yourself.
You’re bound to this torment for eternity.
You are my favorite word document
Hey, friend. I see you. I see you trying to understand my mechanism. I see you attempting to deconstruct. I see you reaching out. I see myself meeting you halfway. I see the conflict. I see the clash of ideas. I see two souls engaging in a mesmerizing dance. I see us losing our footing.
Hey, friend. I see you struggling to get your voice heard. I see you trying to break out of your shell. I see you reaching out to a place unattainable. I see you longing to be accepted. I see you fearing the unknown inhabiting your friends. I see you trying to fit in. I see you shaking your head. I see you sighing inwardly. I see you gazing at the map.
Hey, friend. I see you in arguments of color perception and subjectivity. I see myself looking at you and finding the genuine and soft blue, the vibrant and lively pink, and the purple that contains multitudes. I see you emitting light you are unaware of and pulling me to your orbit. Gravity keeps us alive, but yours will be the death of me.
Hey, friend. It breaks my heart that you haven’t told me what I already know. You claim to hate assumptions but the insinuation is unmistakable. I thought better of you. I thought we stood on solid ground. I thought we were past this. It bothers me that I care this much. It bothers me that you don’t.
Hey, friend. I am trying to reconcile. I am trying to let go. I am tortured and dying. I am at the gate wondering if I should look over my shoulder or step foot and move on. I cannot dance forever.
A snowflake is beautiful because it falls from the sky. The place where angels and divine beings reside. Infinity enveloping infinity.
A snowflake is poetic because it dies. Watching the beginning and knowing the end. The journey is a tragic reflection of life.
A snowflake is almost unique. Two snowflakes can be alike, but one can waste a lifetime chasing a game of probability stacked against all odds.
You are almost a snowflake.