Essay · Rudimentary Philosophy

Penned Out

Ideas, once inked in permanence, are now buried beneath an ever-growing, pixelated timeline. (Is it so much different than having them closed between bound pages and set up on rarely visited bookshelf, the stacks in the library surrounded by thin carpet tread upon no longer?) They are suffering silent agony in the bottom of a newsfeed, giving shallow sustenance to the masses of the most identical individuals ever created by marketing. (Are they even ideas? Do they require our sympathy?) Brought to you by capitalism. Your audience automatically scrolling because nothing is worth stopping for, worth reading even if it is clicked upon. Nothing brings pressure to the itch on our intellectual scalp. We brush past ideas, movements, mantras, ideals, philosophies, like we tuck stray strands of hair behind our ears or to fit them in with the part on the top of our heads. Dandruff falls from the scalp, an excess of dust and decay. Nothing to force the spark of rebellion, to make us stand up and deliver a catalyzing shout.

We are factors in an electronic equation, absent of the bygone ink and quill partnership with parchment. When sharing is a button push, double lives are born. Digital lives cannot be held. Digital lives do not have souls. Has your soul been backed up uploaded to the cloud? We think these digital lives are those worth building. That those relationships are the ones we seek out, the ones we foster. How do we navigate the crossroads between the virtual and the real world?

Where are the woods to which I can retreat? The forest where their signal cannot reach? Does it exist, even in the mind?

The woods to which I retreat for a rebirth of the intellect, of the once rambunctious soul penned up within, exist in the sheets upon which I direct hasty lines of ink. What was once penned up are now penned out and the rebellion of my self against the agents it has so long harbored commences. The revolutionary anthem echoes in the distance and my sinuous limbs fill with a buzzing, electric charge whose intensity will recast the tone of those days which have yet to come.

I will write the revolution, ink the rebellion.

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