Why Are We Living a Healthily Unhealthy Existence?

It’s taken at almost two years to get to this place of cholesterol-free serenity with a clean diet that includes little or no glasses of liquor, which is a far cry from the notorious past that was blurred with dizzying spells of blissful incoherency.

So now that I’ve managed to discipline myself away from the habitual need of infusing toxins into my body, why can’t I apply those life-saving mechanisms to my ailing spirit?

Perhaps it has everything to do with the regimen of non-stop internalization of the raging news cycle, that never collapses from the strain of abundant delivery, with zero adherence to more dignified alert systems.

We have no breathing room for the blinking items that require more time to digest due to graphic details, and how humane tendencies dictate the moments of silence for shot up bodies and bodies that can’t be retrieved.

My eyes wearily shift up and down and all around, and those movements seem harmless until the brain swells and vivid imagination collide with reality, as nightmares jerk up the sweaty template in dewey darkness.

The quick trip to the bathroom awakens senses that respond to the noise of trickling. By the time your phone alights with updates of despair and jarring imagery, you are hit with how sleep time basically dramatized the summation of what your spirit choked on before the lights went out.

Why are we willingly living healthily unhealthy?

What I mean is, why do we appear as the admissible picture of health, when we are rotting away inside, with information overload that we thought would empower, but instead leaves us debilitatingly helpless?

I can’t be the only one who wonders how this normalized climate of dysfunction stealthily crept up on us with very bad intentions that are just now revealing the true nature of this well-planned and purposeful attack.

Embodying the out-of-control virus of “instant gratification” and the re-sharing, retweeting, re-purposing, and endless aggregating of whatever needs to be trafficked with gusto is proving to be the infestation that causes diarrhea of the brain cells.

Unfortunately the only relief comes from doing what can’t be furnished without erasing the profiles that you’ve painstakingly erected to validate identity.

Do you recall the days when you were a social snub?

For me it was just after signing up for Twitter, and feeling that tinge of elitism whenever it was clear that only certain engagers were aware of the massive benefits that were going to be unleashed from the Twitter-fest of like-minds, who possess the qualities required to stay ceaselessly relevant.

A decade later, and I’m desperately envious of the friends who’ve managed to remain Twitter-free without regrets and with the peace of mind that I’m certain will never be mine.

I ooze undigested remnants that fester and torment the ungodly hours that used to be reserved for deep slumbers that follow energetic lovemaking or city barhopping that ends when the pillow absorbs the pounding noise in your head.

It’s the bipolar temperament that distorts the progression of feeling as fit as you can muster with regular workouts and the juices of life that compliment. But once the screens are whipped up, the hard work disappears into the latest threads of urgency, and the collage of links that elaborate material that must find enough room up there to reside, even if your head could finally explode.

Even the avid Instagrammers with their monogrammed luggage and brand sponsored storyboards look like they’re suffering even more, when you consider the unrelenting pressures of being that fabulous without that much-needed breaks from acting out the very #best that #life has to offer.

The greatest fear is extended disengagement, and that reluctance to separate from the very thing that’s making you sick inside is what makes us incurable.

For example, my biggest wish for the immediate future is the loss of responsibility when it comes to monitoring my Twitter feed and all that comes with mandated acknowledgements, and the consumption of anything and everything that comes into view.

The world was never not a complex muscle of manic veins that continuously respond to the prick of what humans exact from nefarious deeds that alight every inch of vulnerability.

Instead of praying for the dreamy corners that get bedazzled with global grief based on vacation points and influencer scrapbooks, why can’t we learn to just #PrayFor the whole damn universe?

The activities of mind-numbingly clicking through tales of missing body parts and blood-drenched streets or even the sacks of barely beating hearts that used to belong to robust toddlers can become the life-threatening drug habit that appears to be under control, until symptoms become too hard to ignore, and your glowing exterior can longer hide the diseased fetus thriving in your enlarged belly of recycled trash.

It’s such a shame to labor so hard to reject the temptation to polish off a bottle of mood-altering fare, and then end up devouring a platter of disorganized offerings that provoke every emotion that can be amassed from the variety special.

This usually features hilarious animal videos, slivers of memes that deactivate the emergencies of R. Kelly and Michael Jackson, sprinkles of casting news that re-activate the vitalness of “diversity” and the confetti from Moments, that leave you emotionlessly emotional.

Please don’t be fooled by my water-fueled complexion, and the verified youthfulness that was confirmed via a much-younger dude, who asked me for my number.

Huh?? That’s so 2009!

What’s also so 2009, is the naive and ambitious writer, who spent too long trying to market those skills through the archaic channels of limited communication that widened considerably when vast landscapes officially opened for business and…

Oh Shit!

I just got a DM that I have to respond to ASAP.

I’ll be back!

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