Saturday, August 11, 2012

*Waves at you.* *Realizes this is not a real emotion.* *Demands better for himself, and others.*

Try writing a letter.  Do it at a clean desk with every writing implement imaginable.  Do it however you choose to do it:  to music, to silence, in your partner's loving embraces, in complete solitude.  Feel the power of your words pulsating under your hands, your original thoughts, meaning something to somebody.  Perhaps even yourself.

Now, do the same thing, but imagine that your desk is surrounded by speakers, televisions, and drawings, some awe-inspiring, some funny, some maddening, some stupid.  Thirty separate objects designed to get your specific attention; each stimulating a different sense, a different emotion, or both; and each of which entreat you to interact with them.  And virtually every five seconds, a new object pops up on the desk, also designed to get your attention, because a machine has told those objects what you like.

That's what's it like to be me, on social media, and still try to write poems.  I like mystery.  There is no mystery on the internet anymore, and this is not a particularly original insight, either.  So here's where I'll stop, and tell you that I've deactivated my social media accounts and decided to write poems and essays instead.

You won't find me on Facebook.  But here's the fun thing: you won't find me here, either.  This is where you'll find my writing.  If you want to find me, you'll have to work a little harder than your search box.

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