The 'we' referred to here is admittedly very small, thank goodness.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

The ‘we’ referred to here is admittedly very small, thank goodness.

The greater number of platforms for self-documentation we’re offered the more we dramatize our lives. The mundane insists on becoming poignant, the routine, tragic. (Remember fml dot com?) Together we broadcast the things that happen to us and feel good about feeling bad, because the problems we journal are of humble magnitude and comic bad luck, gentle on the conscience. Social anxiety and depression become character depth, ineptitude becomes a narrative arc. The inhabitants of cosmic real estate might find us contemptible or endearing. As our narcissism (if that’s what we’re calling it) grows, our self awareness reaches new heights. And we grow dully queasy but uncertain of why, like “fish trying to notice water”. And we mistake our comfortable lives as vessels of deep truths and vainly scavenge for the wisdom that every song and movie promised we’d find by now. Coming up empty ended we lacquer the experiences in an HD patina made for television, trying wallow in the cinema of our everyday and languishing at the stubbornly uncinematic quality of our existence. We end up writing silly poetry and shows about just us but we title them “Everyone.” We are Truman and the camera men and the dedicated audience. Good morning, and in case I don’t see you, follow me on twitter.