Reality TV

The world is here and it’s not. It’s known but it’s also a spark that can’t be seen. What has my life been so far? Millions of narratives that can be fit onto actions that can’t be entirely known, other than the emotions that made them and the drifting silence that rolls in each one’s wake. But how do they fit? I recreate every minute of every day. And that’s just me. Then let’s think of others, and how they think, their words and their visions, and reality multiplies into infinity. But stop! We cannot stand it, you are tearing into our eyes! And I mutter low, shame possessing me as my words dynamize your fear, “There’s the television...the scripted phantoms of that hollow disseminator operating upon your delicate moments, wrapping all action within the voyeured series run. Creeping under tables, tearing your paper mache skin, while its clear tears sweep onto all cuts and sudden oceans surge foamy relief: the cranking voice, the doodled brow, and the silver screen expanding, echoing, then excommunicating swallowed minutes that once vibrated a single story’s sound. Weep! My dear little children, what have we done? What have we done? Where is the real? We saw there was not the one, we saw that there was the multitude, and as the world began to shine forth in its own broken beams of light, bursting forth from the lives yawning out their infinities, each encased in perpetuating systems that recognized death as anticipated ressurections, as that world forsook ancient oneness and paradoxically found not the all but the one, all that we had whipped from our minds onto that which streamed into us began to enter our own bodies and the object reigned supreme. The ecstasy of that newfound vigor! That trembling orgasm the frenzied yearned for at the feet of the wined God clicked onto our doting fingertips! The shaking, the moaning, the constant wave of pleasure that overcomes and grazes the curvature of pain with its oncoming promise of never ending rapture...did we not find it? In the pixelated cut of our brethren? In the widespread proliferation of the unreal, the imagined? And did we not sit as all was dissolved and washed by that composition? As the edges of our world curled and burned, wasting away to signs of the man meant to only indicate? My dear little children, how could we forget? How could we forget the disseminator’s limitation? How could we forget that there was nothing, not a single thing, outside of it? And now, we are trapped, and lost. But we are lost outside. Because the hollow disseminator, he is the only inside. And we, my dear little children, are now hollow disseminators, watching cresting waves smash our empty bones into the vigorous silver screen while we wail in silent terror.”