by Somethinger

We’ve downsized internally.
Too many people and too many chances to meet. So two weeks away means a lifetime of not having seen one another. We have changed time – our habits have brought us to a point where everything can be done now, immediately, instantly and this is madness.
The funny things are now contextual. Everything is a joke. Everything is casual – and should you take yourself seriously, you are ostracised. You cannot sit in a room on your own in the fear of having to listen to your own thoughts because that’s who will tell you truths. You will die; you are unattractive; there will be no sex; your books will fail; you did not try enough; and the one that hurts your pitiful ego is that you will pass, and no one will remember.
Our languages have no purity. Our vocabulary is an excuse. A generation of writers that will not be known after their last publication. Our thoughts are processed in 140 alphanumeric characters. We want to be agreed with, noticed for using a new portmanteau and labelled a rebel, and we have no cause. We fight for a language as prone to evolve and as vulnerable to corruption as humanity and yet we never do it justice.
Passion has a brand. Everything has a rank. Everything needs to be ranked because we crave validation with conformity, we crave standing out – we crave knowing where we stand and the idea of someone not noticing us for anything we do is scary.
We fall for popularity, instead of immortality. We cheat our parents, partners, papers, systems, games that we made and feel good about ourselves. We swallow and we spit. We cannot love. We just cannot love because we are a frightened people. Frightened of heartaches, of propriety, of weakness, of surrendering our souls. We cannot own each other anymore. We cannot bleed for a name. We will have no one great love story that inspires posterity.
The saddest thought perhaps is that we might nod in agreement to this – accepting this as our reality. What a bunch of pusillanimous shit. We have learnt to shrug off our shortcomings as accepting who we are – we compromise without hesitation and we hesitate where we must go screaming into the moment.
We are the recycled waste of greatness without an iota of inspiration in us. We are a pithy excuse of the world that preceded us, and too dead to bother to revive.