What’s going on in there?

How Do We Rehumanize Ourselves?

I’ve been questioning humanity lately especially in the headiness of social media and how that translates into bot-like behavior as we converge to fight for the rations — being doled out minute by minute without recess.

The headlines are daggers — filled up with enough blood to make a huge splatter and in the process we all get wet.

We’re drenched with the bait that presents one thing to those who don’t read — and entirely something else — to the rest of us who do. Everything is concocted for mass consumption and as always — in order to keep up with demand and the flashing traffic lights — there has to be an unnatural infusion into the material.

Did she really say that she supports what Kanye said or that she’s supportive of his ability to express himself — even if his words are confusing or offensive.

Do I have to curb my disdain for Cardi B because everybody and their mama are fans for life and if you deviate from that religion — you’re branded a hater? Why is it okay for influencers to shame people who don’t share their “pick of the month” just because some of us are actually very protective of the right to be individuals?

The cycle of engagement has become a game that nobody wins when you consider how diseased the landscape has become — and how many of us are willing participants in the process of reducing or brains to suctions of data — that is conceived to drive us incessantly bonkers.

Do you ever notice how the most vile news items automatically become trends that never cease until another controversy shifts gears?

If two Black men are kicked out of Starbucks — and the whole world is talking about it — then you can best believe that the entire month will be spent internalizing the competition that throws popular outlets into disarray — as each one begins the race of presenting as many instances as possible — that match the firestarter.

This turns the danger Black people face on a daily basis into a never-ending skit that started off promisingly entertaining until it became the scratched record that not even the most talented DJ can switch into a dope beat

But — is it really news when the delivery is obviously supplied through the mindset of extending the horrifying testimonies that apply to real humans — as opposed to the heartfelt reporting — that tends to move reporters to tears or at least lights the fire that spreads across the line of truth and resolve.

Journalism is now regulated to foreign territory since those who sign up for the daring venture of being human enough to patrol the frontlines — show their vulnerability with bullet riddled bodies and the dying symbolism of being the very last of their kind.

Do you even know how many journalists have perished in 2018 — while performing their work duties?

All we really know for sure is how cool it is for spokespeople with legions of followers who are able to bitch about their travel plans to events where they show us how to be as branded as they are — for our good — seem to represent the climate of a delusional high.

We’re all high as fuck.

High on the selfies that make us look like everybody else. Drunk on the love we get from strangers even when the ones who are right in front of us starve to death. Helplessly under the spell of desperately desiring the status of fame and discovery by any means necessary.

We don’t need to be talented or educated to make it. You have to already prove that enough people love you before you can secure employment in industries that should be excited to have someone that isn’t infected with the virus of viral deception.

Take for instance the woman who stalked actress/director Greta Gerwig as she and her friends assumed they were safely tucked into the darkness of a movie theater without the creepiness of a lurker — frantically tweeting about the stroke of good luck that descended once she realized that the almost empty theater contained a goldmine.

After rejecting the normalcy of watching the dud of a movie called I Feel Pretty — for the coziness of a delectable keyboard with a platter of tweets that were meant to comically capture her experience as a fan on the verge of violating her prey — her efforts were rewarded with a section in Vulture — that featured a transcript of Gerwig’s blasted privacy.

How do we rehumanize ourselves?

Can we ever get back to that place when people were viewed as flesh and blood with feelings — rather than duplicates of prototypes that surface and re-surface based on the moments that have to matter.

It’s hard to calculate how much shittier things can get when you’re screaming into a crowd of fingers and eyes with all the other limbs missing.

If you need a present for a friend’s newborn son — and your emotions are raw from her joy and the guilt of wishing you were the blessed Mary — then be prepared for the avalanche of of bellies and babies taunting your timeline.

There’s no escape from the mind fuck that should scare us shitless but instead seamlessly reside with the other bloated compartments that won’t explode — no matter how much we assault memory and poison the liquid — dissolving around the brain.

We now know we don’t have to bleed in order to be human because those days are behind us.

Maybe the answer lies in the ones who reject the notion that if we say what we mean — that equals never saying anything at all. We still cringe at the sight of repetitive fodder and we can’t stand it when illiterate and talentless nobodies become somebodies — because enough desperados need to validate their ability to endorse authenticity.

If enough of us can survive this cruel joke — where will we end up when shit hits the fan?

Only humans know the answer.

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