Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Isn't it strange how we're set to obsess over the "mystery" and "treasure" in what is not found within ourselves?
We're so tightly bound to this overarching ideal that the world itself is what we live for; that we should, literally, thrust out our own being to become one with this formless amalgamation, the world. Obsess over those in it. Where's in it. What's in it. It's secrets. Anything - anything - so long as you never consider the world of yourself.
You're directed to ponder other human beings. You're taught to concern over others. Set your mind to the collective static of the crowd - retain just enough to add to the cacophony, but restrain the crashing gongs of the soul. Instructed to desire; instructed to find this appealing. Find that alluring. Little more than thumbnails. Conform to a singular set of traits - broad enough to capture each and every mind with little deviance, yet specific enough to be little more than a spotless computer code. Backlit numbers, ones and zeros, telling the Plasticine brain where the prime directives are and demanding it search for those alone. No ulterior motives. No alternatives.
Directed to segregate. Directed to discriminate. Directed to divulge. Directed to hunt. Directed to perform. Act. Display. In front of an audience - directed to watch.