The world demands my consciousness to exist. There it is, in my hands, like a Descartesian hostage, old world prophesies looming, gun control pontification unfurling, global temperatures warming…all these problems so easily solved by the merest act, the reassignment of my consciousness.
And in this mind then I guess is a tragedy — overpopulated planet spinning at 8 light-minutes remove from the sun in a whirling dizzying uncoordinated approach at understanding. The vague scent of just worked wood like anesthetic perfume lingering at the end of each uncouth slug of bourbon dispels awareness of a dissolute and dying culture, bit by bit. I see it, culture, our frail society, sentenced to stand in the stocks, bent at obtuse lumbar splitting angle, at the mercy of the technocrats pressing around and flinging rotten walkmen and stereos and chanting in unison the theme song to angry birds, and occasionally from the crowd, in a fit of individuality there comes the declaration of a song listened to on Spotify; I spotify therefore I am.
I suppose these are the ramblings of an ill-fitting cog. Can we still be proud of the mud on the hems of our jeans and the roughness of our hands? Should we idolize the hurricane lamp only in blackouts, when our world is not back-lit? I suppose I must accept the complex world my mind defines — find pleasure in it where I can, and righteousness where I must; assign malfeasance to an unassigned deity; endure the administration of all with my slight salary and scarce retribution.