Boy, malaise is a strange thing. It’s something that used to be held in private, because the web wasn’t always on. There wasn’t always a way to put it out there. If you felt a little off, you’d just hold your own and do nothing. You’d not go visiting. You’d not answer the phone. Maybe instead, you’d go to bed a little early, or watch pointless television a little longer. But now, with these glowing boxes in the corner, the famed “relatives” from Fahrenheit 451, we have all kinds of new issues. And worst of all, none of the issues matter. We are anxious over things we could control easily. With a click. With a delete.
Don’t read this post.
The email goes thin and pasty, and we start worrying that maybe we’ve lost it. The email is thick, and we get that false sense that we’re important, that what we’re doing matters. The comments come in one or two. The comments stop. The pulses we define for us, for ourselves, these neural pathways that we generate. They don’t matter. They are not the real thing.
Some day, our kids…well, my kids, they’ll say, “Wouldn’t it be cool if we could blog on paper?”
Remember with every fiber of your being that there is the real world without as much instrumentation, and then there’s this “The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel” that we’re all so anxiously viewing.
That’s me. That’s as good as it gets. I’m 36. I am sitting in the dark, with the drone of a humidifier running without water. My daughter is asleep in her bed. I had to pluck the pages of a “magic book” her mom and she made together from around her, strewn like moth wings of cardstock. My son is asleep in his car seat, because sometimes, he likes to sleep sitting up the way his dead great-grandfather liked to sleep. My wife is asleep, up in the loft bed I bought her for Mother’s Day that I’m too afraid to climb.
I’m awake. I’m still in this strange place, this cloudy area where something might happen, where something BIG might happen, where I might just go all-in on a really big conflagration that’s storming around me. It’s SO CLOSE, but I can’t really find the hooks, the connectors. So instead, I create.
But somewhere in that storm there’s expense, and more and more of it, and there’s that ever hungry cry of “Why Bother?” and “None of it Matters.” Sheep. I could be one of the famed 10,000 sheep, drawn at a price of .02 by random weirdos, via the Mechanical Turk. Sheep in your houses all watching and being employees. I could join or rejoin or stay.
Damn, I truly hate getting adequate sleep. It f#cks me up.
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