Volume IV: Nobody Knows

Villain or victim, people have always taken me far too seriously.  If you think I might be joking, I probably am.  I long for and simultaneously bemoan the days when the internet was nubile, when our classmates and future lovers were but silent icons on a screen, pixels making an appearance only to stick around for further analysis.  My renderings and writings have extended far into the technological realm and remained firmly grounded in the reality of ink and paper.   I have a clear preference for one over the other, though you wouldn't know it considering how much time I spend on each side of the brain.

Letters that go unread or unnoticed might be doubly sad as a cheque that flies into a sewer grate before its hungry owner's weary eyes.  We've all seen those eyes before, in the mirror or otherwise. As someone who was entrenched in political studies for many years (a youthful pastime of sorts), I see the politician in every one of us.  Some of us are naturals.  The expansiveness of the human psyche allows for copious distractions and interactions, but there seems to be a natural limit to this madness.  A turnaround starts once we are overwhelmed with infinite technological possibilities:  "I could message anyone in the world right now, or I could walk up the stairs and talk to my roommate."  The mundane option keeps you grounded, and the higher flight takes you wherever it may go.

I've seen entryways to hell and to heavenly wilderness mazes that go on and on without any turns.   I can just imagine what others have seen.  In the earlier days of this global community, I .took advantage of the roommate option:  if you're close by and you like each other, why waste your time pining after souls all over the earth?  There is immense comfort in our humanity, and our love of other land souls.  Spirit through technology is not something that many people have mastered.  I know that our enlightened elders might see virtue in us being connected, but see harm in our lack of humanness as we go about our days pinned to screens instead of squealing children.  We let our fingers do the talking as we remain eerily silent.  Writers have been doing this for centuries, but we used to have to read things aloud occasionally, for dramatic effect.

The voice has been loved and lost.  

Everyone I talk to cherishes a good singer and a good conversationalist equally.  All of those passionate letters that get no response see their original meaning severed in two as time passes.  No reciprocity for such a commitment of words means no continued connection, and every time, we start anew.  I`ve always despised my writing just a little bit more than I love it.  I`ve spilled my heart onto so many people I couldn`t begin to count.  Each one of them deserved what they saw and felt, and most, in turn, have shown me what I deserve.  My friends and family have all written to me at one time or another.  This is my first language.  Many people, I'm sure, are afraid to commit their hearts to words on paper or a screen, for they will see in those letters and pixels their whole being laid out like a puzzle in pieces, and then of course, they`ll want to put it all back together. It can be done.  It can be painful, like finding a lost art.  It can lead to a significant - though not disproportionate - amount of rejection.
We reach out for it, pull back a red velvet curtain, and divine the sensuality that lies in etymology.  Or risk losing our words between our teeth.