It’s hard to find the creativity we once had. At a certain age, imagination flees the soul and we become embodied in this hollow cutout of childlike wonder we once possessed but no longer retain even the slightest glimpse of. At a specific point, different for all but one and same the result, we become imprisoned in this life of mundane and falsely perceived spontaneity, characteristics condoning of one who puts on a special character, a façade of a being and a charade of a life. Our lives living are none as our lives to pictures. The perception we create of the wonders we partake, we are no more of than spiritual entities are real. Our lives are to images portrayed in social media as to ideological ramblings conveyed in text, beautiful expressions screaming, “How wonderful it is,” but underneath nothing more than concealed bullshit dressed in insecure lies. And the cycle only feeds, continues to grow and prosper, get stronger and worsen. For a break we can log off, sign out, and pretend to not be products of this mindlessness, but we are now what we are, and no longer what we were in previous generations. We are the children of technology, of attention spans shorter than animals’… then again, is that not what we are, and what we have always been? Perhaps we are continuing human nature, just in an evolved way. How else would you expect natural instincts of primal beings to handle such abilities, such imprisonments?
It’s 10:15 in the morning, Eastern time. All of the clichés ring true. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. Flowers growing. It paints a pretty picture, but it’s one I turn a blind eye to. My head is pounding like a drum. My body would yell dehydration if it had the energy, or I suppose the ability. I would like to be captured by my closest companion sleep, but to no avail I try. I would like to rise from this prison, but as I consider moving, a pattern of pain slowly begins beating in my head, thud, thud, thud. Unable to rid myself of this hangover, I succumb to the only option I have left: lying in bed, scrolling through social media. It seems every time I tempt the limits of inebriation, I find myself in this predicament. Moreso, it seems every time I wake, regardless of state, I enroll myself to this same ritual. Wake up. Check texts. Facebook. Twitter. Instagram. Snapchat. Carry on. Work all day. Go to sleep. Wake up. Oh, someone’s in a relationship. It’s about time that happened. Carry on. Party all night. Go to sleep. Wake up. Ugh, I wish someone didn’t tag me in that photo. Untag. Carry on. This is what life is now. We are all plugged in, and there is no off switch. After all,
If we’re so full of life,
How come we don’t have long to live?
If we’re so full of strife,
How come we have so much to give?
So brilliant. So fragile.
I wonder what we will get.
Do we sink for miles?
Or do we see the golden chariot?
Nonetheless,
I wrote this with lines from stories I wrote 5, 6, and 11 years ago.
Not knowing what to write, when things are going right.
I am a fraud.
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