technophilia

I’m trying, and failing, to spend less time on my phone. The apps are eating at my mind, eating at the essence of me. I lose minutes, hours, entire days in aggregate to scrolling. And I’m not looking for anything besides The Truth. Can it possibly be there? Have I been holding it in my hand this whole time? 

I’ve glimpsed so much in the ether. It opened my heart and gave me my career. It brought me the love of my life and showed me beauty when I had not the eyes to see. These are all little truths, are they not? But a damp, heavy feeling tells me that the algorithm is turning to poison. I am drip-feeding myself my own end, my own sour domesticity. Bitch, I can’t be tamed! I have always been a wild thing and I can’t let this little rectangle run me. I cannot succumb to a mathematical boredom.

Maybe the big rectangle is better. Yes, this big rectangle that, as a child, I fell in love with. The one that loves me back the most. I stroke the sides of my 2018 13-inch Macbook Pro and run my finger along its discontinued touchbar. I am in love with my computer. It is my portal to the impossible, the strange, the sovereign, the Other. A portal to myself, to desire and satiation, mon object A.

Apparently, at some point in the near future, powerful solar flares will knock out the power grid and blackout our hard drives and pixels and networks. I believe it and I dread the day. There is a phantom pain at the base of my skull, slinking towards the space between my eyebrows.