Prose Poem

This is not how bodies work, he said, putting his phone down. He was getting impatient at work. Stopping and fiddling with the things on his desk, or worse, going online in search of the zeitgeist. There are few more hopeless pursuits than this, but still he tries, like so many others, having not yet realised that the ghost has moved on from our world leaving only a faint stain, a stain we must revere and revive until the end of time. A new order will arise but not for those like him stuck in chasms between ages of markedly different paradigms. For them, the only refuge remains online, in ever shrinking spaces, the communities they’d come to expect now lay dying amidst the wrecks of media relevant thus far. The internet is poisoned now. Forms of interaction change rapidly as a newer cohort of maximally online users emerge from the quarantine. Does it matter to him? He’s never understood online communities. There isn’t the same connection as there is in real life. It’s been a while since real and digital intertwined, leaving nothing left for those that seek the purest way to die. Untainted and free of the values of the present, they seek to find a way to see and live that works for them. Yet to find a way through is hazardous and the only true way is to have fun with it and ignore the zeitgeist, a lonely journey indeed. If you look you might find those who do think like you, in any case you might want to prepare for solitude. This is an age where people are invisible to each other. A longing for something real is ultimately fatal, for the urge to connect and bond almost bests the deep hidden drive of the mind to melt back down into that ooze of unfiltered sensuous perception and raw red instinct. Return back to animal or face the head winds of consciousness. You must start from the center.