Beyond the Silver Veils
An Orwellian Lie in Techno-Apathy.
We stare, we dream less.
Trapped in microcosms of sofa cushions and curtain-darkness, often we compose ourselves unto the banishment of the screens-before-us. Depthless windows in 2D-formats, parading as engineered escapism yet, truthfully, serving only as realities of imprisonment. One upon the wall, gazing down at us, the other within our palms, gazing up at us.
You see, when we seek those digital moments of other-ness, those movements to other realms beyond our mortal knowings, what we actually embalm our brains in is the exo-fluidity of hardening fable-making veneer. Stories pre-programmed in schedules and block imaginations, triggers of posts and tv shows fired into your brain showcasing someone else’s ideas and squandering your own.
Except...beyond the immortal, invincible, indelible, intellectual infinities of the written word, that so subtly supercharge our subterranean minds with new thoughts, new pathways of logistical reason lay in wait. They never abandoned us. But without these reinforced highways we become automatons of mechanised predictability, reclining reinventions that once resembled living, breathing humans.
Yet in becoming such robotic pseudo-people, we form half-lives in vein attempts at self-fulfillment. We become biological once-functions in servitude to naught but illusion, the pageantry of televised falsehoods from which we wind narrow cords of pleasure, draw them close about the winding looms of our memory, and create new tapestries in threadbare patchwork, caught about us and providing hollow warmth. We gain nothing from that silver existence if we gaze too long at its enticing seduction, searching for Likes where often there is scorn, fulfillment that never comes.
Conclusively, if digital shackles are thrown off, used only sparingly, we might take that final plunge into self-improvement. Skills, knowledge, creation, artistic flights, communicative engagement...all of it so close yet, ironically, held so far within the palms of our hands or staring down at us from above.
Held between two gods of immortal falsity.
We are nothing when once we were something.
For more musings on the human soul, follow the search below for a subversive, outrageous, dark, hilarious, and extremely different kind of supernatural novel.
Blood and Biscuits
We stare, we dream less.
Trapped in microcosms of sofa cushions and curtain-darkness, often we compose ourselves unto the banishment of the screens-before-us. Depthless windows in 2D-formats, parading as engineered escapism yet, truthfully, serving only as realities of imprisonment. One upon the wall, gazing down at us, the other within our palms, gazing up at us.
You see, when we seek those digital moments of other-ness, those movements to other realms beyond our mortal knowings, what we actually embalm our brains in is the exo-fluidity of hardening fable-making veneer. Stories pre-programmed in schedules and block imaginations, triggers of posts and tv shows fired into your brain showcasing someone else’s ideas and squandering your own.
Except...beyond the immortal, invincible, indelible, intellectual infinities of the written word, that so subtly supercharge our subterranean minds with new thoughts, new pathways of logistical reason lay in wait. They never abandoned us. But without these reinforced highways we become automatons of mechanised predictability, reclining reinventions that once resembled living, breathing humans.
Yet in becoming such robotic pseudo-people, we form half-lives in vein attempts at self-fulfillment. We become biological once-functions in servitude to naught but illusion, the pageantry of televised falsehoods from which we wind narrow cords of pleasure, draw them close about the winding looms of our memory, and create new tapestries in threadbare patchwork, caught about us and providing hollow warmth. We gain nothing from that silver existence if we gaze too long at its enticing seduction, searching for Likes where often there is scorn, fulfillment that never comes.
Conclusively, if digital shackles are thrown off, used only sparingly, we might take that final plunge into self-improvement. Skills, knowledge, creation, artistic flights, communicative engagement...all of it so close yet, ironically, held so far within the palms of our hands or staring down at us from above.
Held between two gods of immortal falsity.
We are nothing when once we were something.
For more musings on the human soul, follow the search below for a subversive, outrageous, dark, hilarious, and extremely different kind of supernatural novel.
Blood and Biscuits
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It’s amazing the insight we can derive from others and their views. But it’s true, you would take so much more personal meaning from a handwritten letter than a simple text, theres warmth to the former and cold to the latter. Thank you for this, I’m glad you enjoyed it!
If you send a text, versus a handmade card, the words can be the same, but the delivery of the message means two very different things. Reading a paperback book versus an ebook sends different messages. If you're on your phone, you're not in the actual world, but somewhere else entirely, even if you're physically there next to someone.
Super cool read... especially since it sparked a very favorite memory.