what is this...this consistent desire for contact? must we constantly reach out into a haze, hoping to tap someone's shoulder? ha. picture the human race, one hand covering their eyes, the other arm outstretched in front, flailing around like it's a silly game. this is the world where we are all Time's person of the year.

i say this knowing i'm part of this generation. no, i'm not knee-deep in this bullshit, but i've stepped in it more than a few times. it really is easy to follow the status quo. it's like a stream; you just buy an innertube and lay back. all this hobbling around is is giving into (which is the right term?) reptilian urges, primal emotions, and the hobbesian state of nature. what else is vanity? what else is "idle chatter" as Heidegger called it? what else is selfishness? naught but shutting your eyes and shoving off from the riverbank.

this is where "my" is born. this is where the world inverts itself and, essentially, we are all alone. i've said it before and i shall say it again:

Linking all, we have severed all. We have rendered the world an infinite archipelago of island universes.

We have birthed the times when glass protects, and spatial existence is obsolete. Yes, the wonders; yes the possibility! But what is lost when all is relative and we build ourselves out of manmade mud? Substance? Solidarity? Have we made real surreal?

What happens to identity when we write our own histories? Who are we when we control perception? Are we anything?

We sit in translucent boxes, running wires from each unto each. Every breath, every blink, every squint, smirk, or sneer is broadcasted. We are our own televisions. However, each breath, each blink, we could smudge and make gasps or gazes, screams or stares. And the truth is elusive. We see the intended truth. And so do they. Our boxes may be translucent, but we paint the inside. We are beautiful, always.

But, to become an ideal is to slaughter an ideal. And so beauty dies.

Our boxes are sealed shut. Like Schroedinger's cat we are everything inside; we are death, we are life, we are spendthrifts, we are hoards (but all in hell). Cut a peak into ourselves and we prove individual. We can't survive once we're known. We are fragile.

minor digression. but where do we go from here? dare i say i hope with all my heart that man will not fall into this spiral where even grammar is allowed to rot with the time until we, at infinity, would speak in inverted tones and hear negative pockets of air and think by forgetting and live by falling.

destroy your mirrors, save your souls from that liquid acquiescence. instead, fly, fly, fly...

...fly from yourself and into the atmosphere