I CAN WRITE IT BETTER THAN YOU CAN FEEL IT.a manifesto eclectic

written by
justin borja

There
is
only
air
between
us
now.

I'm no longer in control of my own reality. I have regulated myself into becoming a social outcast. I have no fears. I have no dreams. I exist in a world that will eventually die under its own corruption or corrosion. The dreamer that I once was has now become a jaded idealist with outlandish thoughts and notions of grand horizons of unquestionable imagery and potential. Life has taken a side step to indispensable delusions, illusions, ghosts, goblins, demons, and fabricated wars. I make no sense, and I don't intend to.

We are technology, syndicated thoughts engulf our airwaves. They are bright lights flashing all over our computer screens. I (we) have no lives. We read nameless peoples thoughts via nameless web sites. Our lives are archived through the internet. We need to forget this undertaking; we need to stop this madness, but we don't and never will. We need to realize what we're doing. We need to realize that we are celebrities writing and playing for an audience. We put on little shows through thoughtful text messages and online chatting. We're clever, and we know it. We are fake actors, living up fake characters with fake (screen) names and fake imagery. The uninitiated find solace within this baron wasteland. We are deceived by what we write, by what we read. We spend more time looking at pixels than the actual people around us. We know how to build a computer, but we don't know how to change a flat tire. We know how to get the high score in a multi-player role playing game, but we can't even play the real life role of being ourselves. We are controlled communication; our fingertips are weapons feeding lines through tiny wires showing up on screens in the hopes of simulating real emotion. The instant message becomes us. A message on Facebook or Myspace greets us as we fall back into our seats with dire anticipation as to what that cute girl has posted about you. Our life is all summed up in the palm of our hand. We are the machine and we are the soldiers chiming in for the death of physical communication.

I am not original nor are you. We're the lull in the jukebox, the silence that stains the dance floor, the forgotten trend in popular culture - we are pogs, we are marbles, we are devil sticks, we are the nameless child sporting a smile and running around the local playground, without a purpose or direction.

I
feel
like
a
ghost
in
the
body
of
a
total
and
complete
stranger.

-01.21.07.