Have you recently tried to just sit still for a moment, basking in the silence and darkness of shut eyes? Have you considered not moving and just lying still without the urge to grab anything, and with the urgency to gather streams of thoughts into a cohesive pattern that can at the very least help you plan the next hour of an unfolding day?
This is a dilemma that I face in private, and it’s basically like the lump that won’t go away, no matter how hard you try to pretend it isn’t there.
The daily routine of being attacked with the avalanche of news items that are configured to push brain cells as far as they can stretch with the laziness of not compartmentalizing for the sake of sanity was taking its toll back in 2014, and five years later, I can verify that the damage is extensive.
Media’s social media isn’t media.
The internalization of data at the rapid pace that’s designated, and with the fear that robotic tendencies will kick in with the middle finger to humanness, that saves you from scrolling past daily goriness of life without being gripped with horror is exactly what the news cycle wasn’t supposed to curate.
And then there’s the mandatory social obligations that can’t be ignored if you desperately need a job in a world that judges bankability based on the number of people that are forced to “like” you.
At first it was exciting, even empowering to have the world at your finger tips, with the endless possibilities of what can be amassed when you get the right kind of attention.
You try various methods of engagement and observe how blue tickers navigate the terrain of popularity with seamless command. You mimic some of those attributes and then when that doesn’t work, you surrender to the task of spending most of your time trying.
The mind is a tricky fucker, and before you realize what’s happening, the suction consumes the elements that used to shield you from losing your shit, just when you need the disciplined thought process that brought you this far — for nothing.
I hoped that prison sentence would pass me by and lock up the ones that belong in that terrorized state of mind, but unfortunately my time is up.
My ability to stay still in the silence of awareness, and with the embrace of being present without trails of data clogging the view, and shadowing characters in my head who can’t find a hiding place, has been demolished to make lots of room for emotional disorder that breeds emotionlessness.
I can’t even get a goodnight’s sleep without the faint sound of the radio station, that helps to reduce ringing in the ears, that have gotten worse with rising stress levels that can’t be defeated when you’re cradling devices during ungodly hours of the night.
And when I rise, the mornings are spent earnestly immersed in sorting out information that has been updated, and correlating those blocks with best-selling tweets that have surpassed anything that can be created in record time.
Some mornings, the quest for a peaceful day ahead compels the exercise of lifting weights in the form of sitting in that pose, upright, with eyes open or closed, as you imagine the desolation of landscapes, where there are no pending interactions or the noise of traffic from endless clicks.
The failure to revert back to those settings is a frightening setback, and so you jump up and hope that the streams of worthless data won’t devour the assignment of continuous plotting for your return to some semblance of normalcy.
The damage to my reasoning faculties is almost beyond repair, as the solid grip that levels any capacity towards complete adherence to one thing at a time has become the nightmare that plays over and over again.
Creativity becomes half-assed compositions that are ceaselessly interrupted by check ins that reveal only the helplessness of not being to handle solitary escapes to the world that used to produce the gratification that is woefully missing.
Algorithms are the bitchiest bitches.
It used to be words that felt so good, and now its numbers, and whether or not standing at the highest peak of endorsement can levitate to the next row of applause, that could possibly lead to a permanent disappearing act.
When they die, we head over to live pages to check out who they were before that last quest for affection led to the fall from grace. The numbers are always great, and the comments encouraging, but what’s left behind never prompts the need for temporary breaks from page views.
I used to think that we didn’t want to stop, but now I know that we really want to, we just don’t know how.
Everybody is an expert, and everybody has all the answers.
And the shuffling and re-shuffling of content is the collision of our existence, as we can’t seem to get out of our own way, and so the pile ons expand into vacuums that unfortunately remain frustratingly empty.
I don’t know about you, but I’m living for the day when I can hear myself think, and be so moved by those sounds that I organically reject the purposed substitutes that stomp in my head from notifications that alight with falsehood of notoriety.
We got here because the importance of being important in a material world hijacked what we could’ve been if only we believed in it in the first place.
I’m just a sack of numbers that are coded to get me into places that aren’t hidden. I’m just a human, who can’t formulate schemes that are meant to drive me in the direction of progress. I’m a vessel with brain cells that should be studied in order to save mankind from the treacherousness of scams, that promise one thing, and deliver mental extermination.
No matter what, I’m recording why I will never stop attempting to sit still for a minute or two with the intent to let the silence wash away the sensors that fight the light when I close my eyes.
If my brain is short-circuiting, I need to hear it.