As I lay down on my bed, a few precarious thoughts scatter my brain: a conversation I had with a group of friends in between lectures, an apple core that I accidentally threw in the recycle bin, and a stranger cutting in my line as I waited to get some coffee. These are primitive thoughts really, some sort of background noise my brain makes before it washes away the dirt of the day as I drift off to sleep.
But these thoughts have a little more depth than the mere factual entity of them constituting my day. The conversations that I have with my friends are largely becoming empty, a self-constructed facade of insincerity blocks any real conversation that we could have had. I barely exist outside of the way stranger, friends, and family perceive me. We mechanically move our hands to conform to a socially necessitated school of thought.
We are moving towards a painful degeneracy – one that birthed out of modernity.
Internet has been a laudable innovation – I am able to write what you are reading because of it, we can now better guess the implications of Brexit on European economy because of it. Bottom line is: the internet was a good inception.
But just like most things that are characteristically vague, the internet is grossly susceptible to misuse. I am not going to talk about cyber safety, Clinton’s infamous email leaks, or the dark web here. We all have read enough about that.
The muddled thoughts in my head instead speak about how the internet is constantly pushing us to be unintelligibly self-aware about our own aftermaths. Why unintelligibly? The spitfire need to stray away from dark comedy, to be perpetually aligned with the changing political and social notions of free speech, and to assert ourselves through a combination of memes and emojis has all but lead to a general degeneracy around our body morphic.
We have resorted to an unrelenting form of insincerity where we breed our insecurity around the silent whispers raging, “who can care less more?” We don’t want to give anything more than we get and we are so utterly afraid of being emotionally available that we completely shut off our thudding humanity and turn to Instagram to watch others live their life through a lens.
I don’t want to be a hypocrite so I must admit that I am guilty of everything that I have mentioned above. A simmer of creativity does sometimes allow me look at the unhealthy state of my own mental being, but the drag of the tends to absorb my attention otherwise.
In my slow consciousness I can feel myself relapsing back into a robotic humanity we have all accepted.
“I am. am I?”
Only an alien earnestness can save us now.