We have become the gist-folk, mesmerised by a pristine surface layer with no true concern for what lays beneath, for what’s really going on. And I don’t just mean in Mansfield.
Journalism everywhere is dying, satire is becoming stale and predictable, publications and real magazines are there, but remain mostly unread, suffocated by a thin and translucent click-bate culture.
People have grown content with a slow and steady barrage of crap, online and offline, happily subscribing to copy after copy of the same regurgitations of the same the same the same, endlessly reaffirming their most satisfying version of the world.
Each and every day we are fed by a million souls and their increasingly pointless confessions. And now, as a culmination of a time where paranoia and introverted fear have been deemed the appropriate responses to a growing global self-awareness, what is real and what isn’t is becoming a non-issue. Our versions of the world are drifting further and further away from any objective original. Solipsistic and sad, we are medicated by nothing masquerading as something.
Solipsistic and sad, we are medicated by nothing masquerading as something.
Science, bias, the opinion of an individual; these are all regularly purchased and used for capitalistic gains. Ulterior motive is willingly ignored as we nod along to the pulse of the hyper-convenience state. We are becoming the punch-line of a sick joke that has stretched over a generation. The creators and product of a time where the real has become unfathomable and fiction has grown tame in its shadow.
The creators and product of a time where the real has become unfathomable and fiction has grown tame in its shadow.
Yet most of us remain content. Satisfied with what’s in front of us, we’re comfortable not turning the page and so, with dry index fingers, we post about our disfavour with the status quo and about our wanting to do something. But we don’t. Not really.
Our lives have become a badly written sext in which we have swapped the word dick for our own flaccid opinions. We say we’ll put it places and that it will have some real effect, but will we, and will it? I’d guess not in a way that will bring about any true friction. We deserve more; we can be more. And so now we must choose between a meaningful life of friction or one of non-friction, between one of nonfiction and one of fiction. Together, we can rescue the real world back from itself before it spasms into a surreal and shiny nightmare. Rather than simply pacify our own versions of what’s going on with more of the same, we need harsh truths, crap-nouveau, de-tinted spectacles, we need to open our eyes, ask questions and demand both answers and action.
Our lives have become a badly written sext in which we have swapped the word dick for our own flaccid opinions.
We must remember that our rebellious actions are only as deep as the screen or paper they are written on. And so, as we sit there, going over and over the sext we have written—questioning every letter, every comma, doubting the bus driver’s advice, eyes licking the screen as we wait for a response from someone who has left and gone home—we need to look beyond what is there and what is shown to us, we need not pander to rules and regulations, we need not fear loosing influence and we need not fear loosing profits. We need balls, detached and self sufficient, but balls nonetheless. We need content, not discontent.