It seems that technology has come a full circle, albeit loaded with spirals making up that circle. Although I once found writing a relief, a bit like getting a load off my back, the pollution of thoughts, feelings and even actions via video has disgusted me to a point where i back off and out from this tidal wave of narcissism.
It seems the need to be heard is a central irony in today's environment. From one's underwear to one's laptop, everything is a statement. Nothing, too, is a statement. As a well-dressed person, you are scrutinized to be a social floater, a book read by its cover, and consequently judged as a mannequin clone of today's fashion trends. As someone who throws a crappy shirt and jeans unwashed since purchase, you are sneered down from the fake nose bridges supporting oversized sunglasses, even stared at by tiny canine eyes from chi-chi "summer" bags. Neither age nor gender is a recluse from the claws of the retail business - and yes, it is a business. A global $700 billion one.
Who am I? Today I wear a bangle - I am a simple girl, trying not to stand out, yet worried that I may be looked over if I were plain as Jane. Today I wear high heels, hand-made, leather woven - I'm a superficial fashionista strutting on a pavement no different than the skin of those who labour to create it. Today I wore shorts - I don't care about my image, nor about the offended sensibilities of everyone else who find themselves exposed to un-liposuctioned, un-mesotherapied, un-UVtanned thighs. No matter what I wear, I am not me. I am a description -painfully negative, mostly untrue, and fleeting in nature. Every careful thesis constructed to justify what I wear has an equal and opposite antithesis that can and will be observed by the very people I dress to impress. Then, of course, I snap pictures conveying extreme fun, hollywood-style, tres chic, living the high life. And the inches of makeup hides those very real expressions etched beneath my skin, lasered to perfection and botoxed to plasticity.
I post these pictures up; propoganda to my cause. Look at me! View my profile (x) times. I am defined by the number generated daily by a script someone 100000 miles created. Taking it a step further, I write "thoughts" down.
"The girls and I (friends who would only be there for the good times) were practically elbowing our way through the crowd.. (of nobodys who wanted to be somebodys).. the media launch was full of wannabes, and those guys..(genuine people who happened to be there, who are actually nice if you speak to them, who would be much better husbands than the guy wearing $1000 jeans).. EW! Anyway, great Marco (alternatively-sexually-oriented fashionista) bought us cosmos (drink of the moment) and the DJ (some international person I pretended to know) spun uber (word I dont actually know the meaning of) smooth (lingo I try to use occasionally) that night ROCKEDD (Just soaking up the celebrity-ness of everything made me feel cool)!!"
Thesis Vs. Antithesis.
Then I take a video, and more videos, soon I'm being mildly pornographic on free video-sharing sites. Look at me! Look at my new dress, my lipstick, my in-the-moment overpriced something from somewhere I never heard of! And the multitude of people say look at me, look at me, and soon, the whole world is glued to the screen - a global convergence of voyeurs. The techonology we built has turned us into perverts, gossips, judges. We are free not from opinions, not from the subconscious enclavement, and most definitely, not from ourselves. We are then desensitized - we watch murders (REAL ones) for the adrenalin kick we get from ooohing and aahhing. The next time we watch one, its old news. We see more, experience more, tolerate more.. until everything is nothing and the person who said 'Look at me!' with all his/her might gets a miserly video-view number, not because what he/she did was normal, but because everyone is doing so many unnatural things for attention that the NEW societal norm has spun into a global culture that is all histrionic exhibitionism, secretless opposing lives, and an emptiness unfilled by neither couture bags, profile views, nor declaring sexual orientation.. "just because". No one can tell these people that they just look weird. It would be deemed politically incorrect.
When once, preferences and idiosyncrasies were secrets only those we chose to let in knew, they are not shouted from the rooftops. When once, music brought us an ethereal release, it is now demarcated to define a psychographic following. When once, we were just ourselves, and people enjoyed each other's company regardless of externities, we have created an abyss so deep that we never really know who we talk to, and those we talk to never know who we really are. The saddest thing is, neither do we. In the rush to chase this norm, we have lost all that is human in us. Or maybe, individualism is evolution. After all, sharks hunt alone.
In our effort to be as connected as possible, we have dug a lone grave for ourselves even before due date. The death of personality. This theatric - all of this - is not a tragedy. It is merely a phase; an oxymoron like one of the caterpillar and butterfly; transitioning the happy child into a monster shrouded in Spanish and Parisian brands, sipping a mojito to deafening music and really, enjoying nothing.
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Solitary Age.
It seems the need to be heard is a central irony in today's environment. From one's underwear to one's laptop, everything is a statement. Nothing, too, is a statement. As a well-dressed person, you are scrutinized to be a social floater, a book read by its cover, and consequently judged as a mannequin clone of today's fashion trends. As someone who throws a crappy shirt and jeans unwashed since purchase, you are sneered down from the fake nose bridges supporting oversized sunglasses, even stared at by tiny canine eyes from chi-chi "summer" bags. Neither age nor gender is a recluse from the claws of the retail business - and yes, it is a business. A global $700 billion one.
Who am I? Today I wear a bangle - I am a simple girl, trying not to stand out, yet worried that I may be looked over if I were plain as Jane. Today I wear high heels, hand-made, leather woven - I'm a superficial fashionista strutting on a pavement no different than the skin of those who labour to create it. Today I wore shorts - I don't care about my image, nor about the offended sensibilities of everyone else who find themselves exposed to un-liposuctioned, un-mesotherapied, un-UVtanned thighs. No matter what I wear, I am not me. I am a description -painfully negative, mostly untrue, and fleeting in nature. Every careful thesis constructed to justify what I wear has an equal and opposite antithesis that can and will be observed by the very people I dress to impress. Then, of course, I snap pictures conveying extreme fun, hollywood-style, tres chic, living the high life. And the inches of makeup hides those very real expressions etched beneath my skin, lasered to perfection and botoxed to plasticity.
I post these pictures up; propoganda to my cause. Look at me! View my profile (x) times. I am defined by the number generated daily by a script someone 100000 miles created. Taking it a step further, I write "thoughts" down.
"The girls and I (friends who would only be there for the good times) were practically elbowing our way through the crowd.. (of nobodys who wanted to be somebodys).. the media launch was full of wannabes, and those guys..(genuine people who happened to be there, who are actually nice if you speak to them, who would be much better husbands than the guy wearing $1000 jeans).. EW! Anyway, great Marco (alternatively-sexually-oriented fashionista) bought us cosmos (drink of the moment) and the DJ (some international person I pretended to know) spun uber (word I dont actually know the meaning of) smooth (lingo I try to use occasionally) that night ROCKEDD (Just soaking up the celebrity-ness of everything made me feel cool)!!"
Thesis Vs. Antithesis.
Then I take a video, and more videos, soon I'm being mildly pornographic on free video-sharing sites. Look at me! Look at my new dress, my lipstick, my in-the-moment overpriced something from somewhere I never heard of! And the multitude of people say look at me, look at me, and soon, the whole world is glued to the screen - a global convergence of voyeurs. The techonology we built has turned us into perverts, gossips, judges. We are free not from opinions, not from the subconscious enclavement, and most definitely, not from ourselves. We are then desensitized - we watch murders (REAL ones) for the adrenalin kick we get from ooohing and aahhing. The next time we watch one, its old news. We see more, experience more, tolerate more.. until everything is nothing and the person who said 'Look at me!' with all his/her might gets a miserly video-view number, not because what he/she did was normal, but because everyone is doing so many unnatural things for attention that the NEW societal norm has spun into a global culture that is all histrionic exhibitionism, secretless opposing lives, and an emptiness unfilled by neither couture bags, profile views, nor declaring sexual orientation.. "just because". No one can tell these people that they just look weird. It would be deemed politically incorrect.
When once, preferences and idiosyncrasies were secrets only those we chose to let in knew, they are not shouted from the rooftops. When once, music brought us an ethereal release, it is now demarcated to define a psychographic following. When once, we were just ourselves, and people enjoyed each other's company regardless of externities, we have created an abyss so deep that we never really know who we talk to, and those we talk to never know who we really are. The saddest thing is, neither do we. In the rush to chase this norm, we have lost all that is human in us. Or maybe, individualism is evolution. After all, sharks hunt alone.
In our effort to be as connected as possible, we have dug a lone grave for ourselves even before due date. The death of personality. This theatric - all of this - is not a tragedy. It is merely a phase; an oxymoron like one of the caterpillar and butterfly; transitioning the happy child into a monster shrouded in Spanish and Parisian brands, sipping a mojito to deafening music and really, enjoying nothing.
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Solitary Age.
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