So you wonder just what is it that defines your world. Fragments of songs, advertisements, conversations, websites. What really separates you from the smelly old dude on the street who mumbles seemingly nonsensical bits of sentences strung from the nethersphere of thought like a tetherball of fear? He picks up things in the air like a radio on constant scan, having lost himself, having had his self submerged in definitions that he exists outside of and can never touch. What separates you, what distinguishes you, defines, denotes, demarcates? How are you different?–isn’t what you think makes you different (what you wear, what you think, what you eat), aren’t those things only the things that make you the same? Everything that would make you individual links you to a collective beehive of humanity.

Everyone always thinks they are alone, alone alone. So all of these lonely people sitting in their hotel rooms, in their offices, in their condos, on their balconies, boxed into little windows that shine buildinged and clustered into the night, sitting with their whiskeys, with their teas, their newspapers, their CDs, sitting feeling alone all together in the city. . . It boggles the mind, how disconnected we can be while living so close to one another. We look at each other and we see only ourselves.

What is the central underlying purpose to this madness of endlessly propogating humanity? You try so desperately to remain distinct, afraid of losing yourself, because you do not want to be like the crazy guy on the street, who talks to himself in fragments that he does not own. You are distinct, you are alone, you are afraid.

The hippies are rich. The dumb spoiled son finds Jesus and becomes President. Computers are no longer personal, they are interconnected, wireless, mobile. Intrapersonal. Our identities on-line, our identities at work, our identities with our family, our identities with ourselves. Why is what I deliberately project any less real than what I subconsciously manifest? We shuttle, we transgress, we dance.

Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

One thought on “Puzzle”

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