The dying old crone Lilith, offended by the love so true shared by young Tristan and Isolde, cursed them into becoming the Incubus and Succubus, compelled to be with all but the very one they were sworn for.
The current time is always, relentlessly, the ever-changing now, yet we are helplessly lost in the currents surrounding our hopes and fears, and our perversions. Modernity is resolute with inauthenticity. Facebook, YouTube and Twitter, the true digitized hollow Earth of today, currently purging countless supposed bot accounts only verifies that the greater portion of the global population is not actually existing within online social media. Which means that the avatars and proxies staring back at us are merely the vocal minority, with all the wordless vapidity of our own eyes influencing ourselves in the mirror.
Greed for wealth or power are pathways to attention, which in its own way is the insistence of some authority over others. All of which represents the act of personally signing away on freedom. It is incomplete, for want of something better, something more. An audience, a like, a follow-through of anything even remotely substantial to then be drained for the greater good of giving whatever morsel of credence to that consciously collected, electric but too derivative of itself to be eclectic, Collective Unconscious. The excruciating mass of history, authentic enough to have carried us this far, is taken as irresolute. As though the plasticity, the falseness of today were not the thing to be ashamed by. To go without social media, to distance oneself from that vocal minority, is to be trivialized, belittled and even demonized by those persistent voices. When their obsession presents the largest mass hallucination our species has ever feverishly dreamed. Artificial and superficial, the welcomed distractions from the waking lives to be led, the distractions from being left alone with our own thoughts. Instead of users defining themselves, they wiki it out for other account-holders to do so; all parties investing in the fantasy like mutual junkies giving weight to the tangibly weightless in a shared delusion. Assuring each other that all is perfectly normal. Like the inexperienced teenager, unwilling and unable to match the world they selfishly, madly, want the world to be, castigating that greater portion as being the lesser, non-proverbial outsiders mucking things up. Condemning reality for not verifying dream, for being more real than dream, for being the birthplace and origin of dream. Making excuses for the drugs.
Repetition and reaction, with the source of everything non-trivial being fundamentally offline for all to willfully not see. Away from the keyboard in real life, in the here, and now, which would never have happened were it not for this eternal line of yesterdays which stubbornly, stoically, brought us. The commentary of the web is hardly seasoning, much less the meal.
Vampires drinking transmogrified communion wine become angels. Where vampires only come out at night, angels only come out by day. And where vampires bastardize the blood of Christ by drinking the blood of man, angels bastardize the body of Christ by feeding on the flesh of man. Angels eating transmogrified communion hosts become vampires.
The assertions of the social networking fiend: We don’t need the audience but please hear us out. We don’t need the past even while it proves the foundation for today and tomorrow alike. We don’t want to know sweat, blood or tears but we want to reap what they sow, we want what they produce and we so want it now we want it fucking yesterday and how dare you distract from our distractions aplenty.
Self-awareness cannot happen when hiding from one’s self, or religiously observing everything save the self. The desperation of manufacturing falsehoods to define ourselves, that undesirable though obsessive-compulsive longing for certainty amidst pixelated delirium, with declaring steadfastly accumulating though wholly unnecessary offenses at the perceived wrong sorts providing the perceived wrong answers, is a self-perpetuating transgression and not a self-fulfilling prophecy. In lieu of destroying reality to create fantasy and dream, let’s destroy fantasy and dream to create reality. As there will be no dreaming or fantasy when we’re dead and gone, being themselves the only things to count on in this life.
Entertainment is a luxury, not a right, and one which the coins on your lifeless eyes will never afford.