Blessed Inability

I am woefully ill equipped to deal with a medium based on thousands of random reactions, emotions, attacks and notions. Were I born fifty, or perhaps a hundred years earlier, the contemplative pursuit may have been somewhat easier. But this is all trickery and deception. Fifty years ago would have been disastrous. At least I get to see how the experiment played out. But a hundred years ago? Perhaps.

I’m glad that Torba’s project exists. I think it matters, enormously, and will only matter more and more as time wears on and the realities around us are distorted and manipulated into the dystopian nightmare that best serves their narrative. But I’m not the target market. I’m no good for it, and it’s no good for me. I cannot temper curiosity enough to be satiated by the snapshot, or the snippet. I think it’s good to have access, platform and ‘community.’ But  need to ponder, I need to pray and I need to breathe. 

I lost at least half an hour to a strange phenomena, of stolen identity and aesthetic; bizarre pageantry and strange public lives. I find it all so unnerving, but at the same time, compelling in all the worst ways, for all the wrong reasons. Then God wakes my children to save me from myself. Again.