Dirt Over Data

What is this path we are walking? Where does the less tread one lead? Can we ever take ourselves away from these bots and vibrating, fabricated falsities. They have no value, not like boots and mud, dirt under fingernails, sites unseen.

I’m looking for mystery and signs of creation, to remember the lost art of sitting still and finding inspiration. People, these days, hate what they can’t immediately understand. They aren’t capable of interpretation, only explanation.

I admire a clear message, but I value imagination more. Eyes stretched and horizons distant is where the dream lies.

We are buried in flat screens and hollow messages sitting on the surface like pond scum, blocking the world below. I find myself wandering through a digital woods, looking for signs of life. The smallest rustling grabs my attention, my hopeful attention.

There are weeks when my feet never touch grass or dirt or curl around rocks, but my hands constantly clutch plastic all day long. Instead I want to clear that water’s surface to see below. But, I’m wiping the screen of my phone, neck and head sinking like a dead man nailed to a cross.

What is this? Self inflicted punishment we’ve created, we’ve stepped into purgatory and forgotten that we are of the elements around us. They say we are evolving, already cyborgs, tethered to machines and technology. I see us as corrupted by synthetic material hoarding, lost in the lust of abundance. And I, myself, am a hypocrite.