The air was still. Only the sound of fingers tapping rapidly could be heard. Reload, refresh, restart. My eyes, frantic, as they scan the screen. A wave of pictures flood my device, each expressing their own fantasy narrative. Dollar signs and perfect smiles blind the eyes of the weak, a manifestation of the un-achievable. Fragments of a desirable vision cut through what is, tearing apart what could be. Its leftover shards of the past lay a waste, forcing the mind to surrender, no longer a being attached to its conscience - an empty shell.
There upon the bright screen, I search desperately. Scrolling, for what feels like an eternity. When does it stop? The ever-growing need to constantly be aware. Did you know that 77% of people spend more than 11 hours per day interacting on social media? When do we take life as it is, living in its ethereal and natural beauty instead of pushing to forge this false concept of reality? It consumes me. And I allow it. For this brief fix of temporary fulfilment is addicting. I crave the thrill of being unknown, no longer burdened by my own peculiarity, and though my identity becomes warped, I feel joy. A detachable persona - a personality disconnected from who I am and embodies who I thirst to be.
Like a ball of knotted wool, I begin to unravel. And my perception of what is real begins to fray. I depart from the tasteful lies that have twisted its way around my soul. My eyes no longer seek the naked truth, but have grown accustomed to the fabrications curated by the ones who seek control. What is my truth? A true lie. What is and what is not? My brain cries out for closure. I feel my body shake, it becomes flooded with a strange presence that does not belong there. And then I mutate. Like a tree in winter, I am lifeless, motionless. There are no hopeful sprouting's of new beginnings, my thoughts are dying leaves that blanket the ground, caressing its sorrow with its final moments of life.
You do not see the weeping eyes as they blur the memories that haunt my mind, nor hear the despair that intertwines my screams. For the carefully constructed images portray an alien self I do not recognise. A perfect lie. It stalks me, the fear. Hiding in anticipation, a merciless predator ready to feed upon my terror, doubt and distress. The darkness devours its prey. A mercy killing. No longer can I hold onto foolish ideals. And so I let go. I wander, no longer attached to the strings that tied me to a body filled with obsessive prospects, but an effortless spirit, yearning for tranquillity. Diseased depictions of perfect perceptions have tainted the looking glass in which we have wrongfully worshipped. I am more than an image, a name on a screen. An unwinding lie. Who am I tomorrow, if I do not find myself today?
YOU ARE READING
the girl who cried anon
Poetrya collection of poems and creative writing inspired by human responses to a self-conducted interview in regards to social media, later collated and linked to psychology. these pieces are my results. all rights reserved © fleau 2019
