We’ve all slowly evolved into the cold isolation of tiny boxes, where in some cases days are spent peering out it’s portholes into the world outside. Sweat and stain fill a pile of cloths and linen which lay secretly tucked away in a wicker container somewhere in a corner. Stale beer and the smell of smoke fill another room, along with a depressive essence that somehow remains; it lingers heavily on the wrists and tugs down at your spine.
The scatterings of books, writings, disjointed thoughts and musings of useless ideologies fill a hollow space in a cramped room. A lifeless wall of light creates a vacuum that will soon absorb the sole for countless hours. The beginnings of a sort of social prostitution are on the horizon, an a-personal mental self loathing and intellectual masturbation are taking place; enough that, even in this instance one feels a hint of guilt when it’s all over.
Walk into a room of people and begin blathering on about the nature of metaphysics and it will soon become clear that perhaps you should have first broke the ice with idol chat about the weather. This sort of social prostitution doesn’t work out so well if you have to look a man in the eye. Better you hide out then, run away to your little corner.
Computer monitors have become a substitute for living. They receive our opinions without regard to content or social order and structure. They allow us to call other men idiots and revel in our own might before even knowing the passions of another. Our thoughts are often times dispassionate and are not necessarily a reflection of our love for life, family, and meaning.
I imagine the field of cyberspace is much like a playground full of children; where in this case children often brush off small talk and social pleasantries. They are interested only in what worth you can bring to them in the form of excitement, and if one does not have anything to offer then you become ridiculed and ignored. You end up occupying a small pile of dirt in the far corner of a field, kicking a can and pretending to be self amused.
There is an unassuming fuel and food station in a small town of 585 people where old men come to gather in the morning. Stepping in pie-eyed and wiping the grease from you’re forehead there they sit. They’re farmers, everyday they come to talk over they’re toiling, exchange hardships, and laugh about meaninglessness. It makes you smile to see them there, in that moment they may as well be Godless because of course, God is the last thing on they’re minds. They smile, wave, say howdy, and you quickly grab your gallon of milk and cigarettes and get the fuck out there; you go home then, back to your pile of dirt.
Man is a lover, he is a fighter, he has a brow that was meant to sweat and hands that were meant to grab hold of life, not just tap on it. His legs were meant to run and be free and his nose to smell the freshness of untainted air. His arms were meant to hold those that he loves, to feed them, and to bring them up. So step away from your dirt piles and mingle amongst the peoples, speak of meaningless things and engage in meaningless games. This is you’re lot in life.