For instance, the instantaneous glitch…
As I begin writing a few words on this platform, the medium screen prompts “Tell your story”, but somehow, that’s the most difficult chore to do on any given day. Not because we do not know how to? do we? Not because we don’t see a point in doing this miniscule activity anyway? Not because we don’t find a bank of ears lent to absorb the story? Not because the ambiance doesn’t catalyze your mood enough? Not because you scare away easily from the plausible zones of vulnerability? Or is it because this is the age of zero emotional retention? Instead of collecting substances in the beads of experiences to weave a story later, this is the era of instant acknowledgment of every spike created in your brain, translated into creator-mode grids on your social handles with quirky captions. Hello Instagram!
This isn’t a read on “the banes of social media”, I merely want to put forward the aftermath of not being able to wind down ideally, because a creator did it much more aesthetically in their 16th “weekend disconnect, lofi edition” upload (and her golden retriever shed hideously on the sponsored sage green couch, which she had to clean with an automatic robotic vacuum cleaner while her bath got ready with preset warm lighting, to be compensated with of course, a white wine glass which was bubbling just enough on a hot summer day).
I am going to keep this super-short, so that our Sunday doom scrolls do not get interrupted, because I do not get why and when did it become an ill-intended activity, if it works as a lullaby for you, do not miss the cue, grab your share of melatonin xD
Witch-tok does have good omens!
I am convinced that “cosmic indifferentism”, or “cosmicism” (goes two steps further from existentialism, and nihilism, until you come across sad but true revelations of pessimistic philosophy, that the greater gods are indifferent to humanity and its perils, which makes us insignificant in the grander scheme of things) would not have occurred to be pondered over if it were not on a page I came across while scrolling mindlessly at a random 3 AM.
Now that the established doomsday is irrelevant, the present is the only meaningful trophy.
Oh, and also, every time I figure out the meaning of life, they change it. And it’s these instantaneous glitches, that keep us human enough, because ain’t nobody messing up with the greater gods (in my inuendos, these words are pronouns), not that we fear doing the sin and harboring chaos, but because in every reality, it is insignificant.
