Ever opened up WhatsApp after ten hours—a new record on your spiritual journey—and had zero notifications? Are you dead?
Everyone else must have died.
The nictating need of urgency, hope, love, desire, aspiration, assurance, abyss has gone off. The bell has sounded. Your brain’s salivating guesses. The lines of coke have been laid out. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.
Do you climax when you get a call from an unknown number?
Is this too much theatre for you? Should we take it down a notch? Are you someone that’s turned off notifications, walking around with a halo of self-awareness that grows in proportion to other people’s lack there of, the modern version of I am closer to enlightenment because I don’t masturbate? You lucky constipated cuck.
You really should talk more kindly to yourself.
My notifications are turned off. It’s different for me. I am living in the future. That’s my version of notifications. Even as I write—the only thing I want done today—I want to be doing something else. My notifications are a reminder of everything I am not doing. You silenced the phone? And the head?
what next, what next, what next
You judge ’em, too? They are looking into their remaining scrap of consciousness and you—you are looking into your mind, the superfluous consciousness of your self. Neither of you is noticing what’s going on. They walk with their head down and miss everything, and you walk with my head up, frustrated you are definitely missing that one thing. Where I come from, it’s called
Akkan just miss.
I never got it, this whole idea of living in the present moment. I still don’t. But how grand it must be to experience a single moment of complete acceptance. Of not having the need to go back. Or, inevitably, forward. Of not craving change from the change you once craved for, ad infinitum, ad nauseam, ad astra.
What’s stronger? The absence of desire or a desire for absence?
The more comfortable things get, the more we find out who we really are. Just like the wealthier you get, the harder you need to work at nicety. In a way, the second dick—about time we acknowledge the phone for it is (small i, in case you are taking notes)—has made us all wealthy. What’s an upgrade but a dick extension in a somewhat literal, but disturbing sense? It’s why the natural progression from the phone was an ankle bracelet, around your wrists. The whole asylum ensemble. Welcome to the future. Notifications: now streaming straight into your blood: The opiate of the masses.
Wireless earphones are the new Hair Gel. It’s how you spot douchebags.
Now we are pretending real hard to care about, well, anything. Everything. To feel. Because notifications are the muscular dystrophy of feelings and if you really want to get ironic: its living someone else’s life, the results of their thinking, the noise of their opinions. Ever stayed hungry because you fell into a YouTube spiral on how to prevent hair fall? Don’t worry about staying foolish.
Insert your own non-ironical Steve Jobs quote here.
Notifications fabricate noticing. It’s why there’s so much meaningless rage. You are constantly pinching yourself and pissed off that someone’s hurting you. The lap dance of technological progress: Your mistress is also your drug dealer and your escape is also your prison.
Crew, prepare for landing. Oh, God, yes!
Meditations 