The People with Scrolling Thumbs

It is easy to navigate. It is easy to move down. See what happened...or what happens. For past and present no longer makes sense. I can navigate with a smooth flow, flashing images, videos, words, cries, emotions, appeals, taking it all in, taking it all out. Missing the things I care, and only seeing what hurts. Indifference to it all can only hurt in the banality of life. Simpleton you are and simpletons we will stay. The harder steps fade, the reach of the hand, the twist of the tongue, the clinch of my brain...all too much to bear. And run along smoothly through that list of people, friends, acquaintances, one-night-stands, inmates, colleagues, ridiculous links to a life that does not exist, a life we do not belong to.

It is easy to get the multitudes. There is more out there than you. There will always be. There is always more and it will flow, flow through me and past, in a forever present. Evergreen. Ever plastic. Up and down blown by the winds of change. Scrolling will make me forget to forget. Forget to forgive. Forget to heal the wounds of time. Perennial rage and narcissism will prevail through mind and bones. Those eyes staring at you will become a symbol of revenge, of disdainful hopelessness. And we shall all become thumbs not good enough to ok what we really like, to ok what we really mean, to ok what we love and what we've forsaken.

Scrolling down you won't find anything. It is easy to look for it aimlessly but you won't find it. It is not there and it will never be because it never was...

The Man in Returning Circles

Everybody seeks space junk with loveless life, with packaged goods. From here to Cuba to Kansas. Meaningless attrition of a fifth unknown force will not leap us forward, or perhaps it will push and pull, seek and throw back what we love at all costs, what we lose the most.

My life in rows will run parallel to yours, in health, in love, in mortgage, in numbers, never-ending and never-meeting as we are destined to stop and start on our own, unaware of the walls alongside our desperate run. The dust in our eyes, the blindness we once foretold, will be nothing compared to the rows of runners in a constant race to return where they once were, where they once spoke of good-natured things, of love, of smile.

An the circle will swirl even further, as we become more and more proud of how each stunt in our life is an ambitious prize of recognition, of self-recognition, displayed to the invisible crowd, the mannequins, the homeless perhaps lost, immersed. Circle the ring of fire. Circle the ring of death. Circle no more, return once again and repeat to yourself what you promised. New words spoken to you in a circular memory you keep forgetting day after day, year after year, life after life.

The last percentage will get us there where a last piece of the puzzle is maybe hidden. Another clue to remind us of our fate, our ever-returning path to a state of constant move, rush, that will never meet our future self, , that will never meet the family and friends we left behind, that will only make us spiral out of control.

The People Who Forgot the Change

We will always like the past for what it gave, for what it stood, for what it taught us to build, to respect. For we dislike the present we now so easily remember, store, collect. And we still look back because before is better. Before is younger. Before felt newer, fresher. Before everything was easy. Now we know it already. We need to travel further afield to be marvelled. To find something new. Now we are more tired and struggle to remember. Remember what made us, remember that change has come and gone, always. And our minds shrink under a strong wind of time that never flows back but always returns, on our lawns, on our newspapers, in our ears, in the food we eat, in the bright sky we see each morning. Sometimes it is not obvious how we got here, how we have grown, evolved. How did we fit as small ants in the obnoxious course of civilisation? The answer is always to accept a failed accomplishment, an undone achievement, we made no difference. Our future has worsened. That is because we can only moan for not touching with hand the change that goes through in our minds, in our society, in our faith or ideology, in what travels around us. For change is there and always, and we may change without even realising and without noticing how our eagerness is rewarded. Our mind's focus struggles to change and forget where it is, where it has been and where it could go. Our bodies like to change the looks, the environment; peer pressure to please, welcome, join, accept, the tiny section of world you live in. A man sitting on a bench in the park for ten years is seen as the man who will miss the great news, the big changes, history itself. A man travelling the world, meeting the people, may never see the light of change for he forgets what was learned, what changed inside, what made him or her. And we all blame the past and present for not giving us a future when the change that came through is hardly acknowledged as simply the products of our own hearts and minds.