I’m twenty-five years old.
I have only recently experienced Twitter, and, it’s as diabolical as I imagined.
I’ve never been adept at self promotion.
I’ve never been fond of social media.
I don’t think anything productive will come from my interaction with this evil, but I am curious.
I hash-tagged something for the first time, a few days back. This immediately gave me great pains, as I wrestled with the duality of consequence. I began thinking about Newspeak, from George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. I imagined a world where everyone spoke in hashtag, screeching, blithering, brainless – the population squawks hot tags, violently pecking at their phones.
“Mother of God help me, I have to know what is trending or else I will cease to exist and people will miss me dearly because my individual story is a fundamental building block of the collective reality.”
You only need to spend about 46 seconds browsing the platform before the stark realization that we’re inevitably doomed, slaps you across the chops.
It’s mesmerizing, I will admit.
So easily you consume and are unknowingly consumed in the process.
You trade a follow for a follow, barter a like for a like.
You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.
Until everyone is itching and everyone is scratching, no one knows what the fuck is going on, what’s valuable, fact, fiction. All that shit goes out the window and you’re left with a pale blue light, face fucking you until your eyes roll back into your head and your finger scrolls, clicks and taps away on its own.
Ah, but then there’s the potential of recognition, or at least the illusion. The allure of acknowledgement. It’s something you need to work for outside of the Matrix.
Cut your teeth, bleed and be broken.
But not here.
Here, it comes as a wave, fast, righteous, slamming the shore and stealing the sands. It drags you back with it, into the ocean. You’ll find yourself out there, floating, the panic settles, it’s peaceful and calm. You’re buoyant, cradled in bliss. All the while sharks circle as the inner storm brews. You’ll lose your bearings, swept further out. The ocean demanding more, waking you and murdering the lullaby. You will sink, down, into the deepest recces of this liquid nightmare. Below, it’s nothing but bodies. That’s where you’ll find your recognition. In the glazed, mirroring eyes of innumerable dead. You’ll join them down there and pile higher each day, until a select few can step from the shore, and walk across the water effortlessly.
In conclusion, it would appear I’m no better at self promotion. I’m still not a fan of social media and I’m not entirely sure if this was a productive manifestation.
Live long and prolapse.
– Rick Henderson.