dan.mindfill.com Δ


Wings of fingers, the analysts glide across the mountains and valleys, fast fourier transforms parallelized over the raw underbelly of what drives us all. Perhaps their accelerated faces can finally tell me what makes us instinctively grab for that one more drip of useless social networking slop, like pigs in a closed timelike curve, a pattern that makes us nauseated and dried out husks. But instead the powers are applied to source better glimmery shims of trinkets and trickery, fired straight into eyeholes unblinking at what are effectively hot rods of melting iron.

Well okay, that’s just a metaphor. Fine. Let ‘em sink down inside you now, we can’t see straight anyway; let the molten mind viruses collect in the pit of your stomach and cool into a rusting, lumpen form well-matched to the hole deep inside you. Sure, you’re not susceptible, you don’t even look. They love when you think that. By now, all the lords of content can’t see the forest for the trees, our rivers can’t move from one end of us to the other, and we’re anchored to our chairs by the weight of it. Click one more time.

When you have a device that gives you instant drips of the brain chemicals that make you feel alive, why do you need to actually be alive? This thing you’re staring at is not inherently bad, but the cycle it builds inside might be. The gravity of its loops pull us away from outer spaces, inner lands, and too many people can’t stay silent. Think, quiet now. Close the tabs, and breathe. Now start making something that steps outside the current assumed boundaries, something that breaks their algorithms, and fly up in your own new form.

categories: writing