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The Deluge of Everything | Eat. F***. Pray

Saturday, August 13, 2016

Write. Write, I'm urged. But my fingers don't move. Must all be funny? Must all be pretty? Must all transcend above the madness, the clutter, the noise....so much noise. I don't want to write I say, there is too much clutter, too much junk out there. Everybody's speaking, everybody's ranting, there's too much to consume, too much to assimilate, too much shit to get through to find the gold. So I don't wan't to write. A drop in the ocean I will be. Or maybe one drop too many. I don't want to be noise. My fingers haven't moved in years. They begin...and then they stop, for can they imprint in the deluge out there today? The deluge of opinions, the deluge of feelings, the deluge of imagery, the trolls, the mad-hats, the maniacs, the rebels, the voices that matter but cannot be heard above the din.

We are drowning. In ... everything. Consumerism, tourism, terrorism, fascism, capitalism. Where do we start our days? What all do we traverse? What all do we try to be? Exist, persist, conquer, excel, accept, deny, rebel, fade, shine, tow the perfect line of not towing the line. Every action is a pluralistic choice. And we can never make the right one. What book should I read?  What milk should I drink? What phone should I buy? Should I work to feed my soul? Should I work to feed my body? The world is accelerating like a beamer on meth, the speedometer hitting the roof. Progress, they say. The pinnacle of human achievement. But is achievement the continous chase of the better, to the point that we never really enjoy what is being achieved? That we don't have time to simply exist, that we don't have the time or the choice to savour the achievements?

Come, come online, I'm urged. Put yourself out there, stop retreating. And so I try. Read, share. Click, post. Message, ping. Comment. And then the notifications begin. And I go about cleaning them, because well OCD. After a while I start feeling like an overgrown adult at a teenage event, and slink away.

I travel far and different. I walk about in high energy cities, feeling alive again. I go up mountains that are lonely no more, feeling high again. But no matter how high up you go, you can't escape into the realm of Buddha. It no longer exists. Too much hovers everywhere. Too many eyes. Too many beams. But home, though far in the desert, never feels too far. A tiny slice, of a building, in the corner of a random corner, in the center of the world. I return here, and it provokes me again. Look at it, a whole tiny civilization built out of absolute barrenness. Yes, the pinnacle of human achievement. But I can't help but feel like I'm in a bubble, in a world that can so easily fade away again. 

So I return, to the virtual world. A world you can scroll through.

Donald Trump, Donald Trump.

Cow vigilantes.



Refugees. Remnants of societies coming to an end.

Human remains being dug up, skulls being detached from intact skeletons in the name of historical research.

Just as perhaps we might be in the long long future.

What will be our history? Will we too like all known civilizations end in a mighty bang. boom. flush? What will remain of ours thousands of years from now? Who will be our Aristotle? Will the future beings know of the existence of Columbus? Computers? Cloning? Will they know that we have left trash out in space, on planets, on the moon? The world is barrelling towards its own conclusion. Sometimes I'm too curious to know how it will all end, and what shall remain. I want to know, I want to know...I can hear a little girl singing in the sweetest of voices..."a hush, a push, and we all fall down..."

My husband is home from work. "It's been one of those days" he says, "I feel like there's a terrible itching in my mind". I help him relax, give him dinner, then we go to bed, have a good time. I go back to the book I was reading, he goes to sleep to recover. I wake up the next morning from a night of vivid dreams, say hello to God. He's scrolling through his facebook, and I spot a headline "FDA confirms chicken contains cancer-causing arsenic". "Oh God" I mutter, tired of having to curate the food we eat. "Nothing like that" he dismisses, "there is no arsenic in chicken". I am ready to believe it, and go put some chicken out for defrosting. In between preparing it, I go online, post some photos, then wonder why I post them. I scroll through ... Donald Trump...Donald Trump...Rape videos being sold in UP...the inspiring story of an Indian leg amputee.

Inspiration surges through me too, and I feel the burn to do something of value myself. My brain is hyperactive with ideas now. Excitement peaks quickly, and then I chance upon that omnipresent article on Tolstoy decoding why we exist and the meaning of life. I read it and look skywards to the ceiling in contemplation, detect the faint sound of a bird on that lone tree in my barren locality and find that feeling of being suspended in time and space descending upon me. So I push myself up in resistance, take out the arsenic chicken roast from the oven, and we dig into it.

"What were you thinking about earlier?" asks he.

"why we exist" I respond, and we both know this is not the first time we have gone down this road. We've gone past the "you think too much".

"And what was your conclusion?" he asks me nevertheless.

I bite into the chicken, juicy, fat, pumped with steriods, savour it well before I say "Eat...



The rest, I have decided, can rot on Facebook.

Or take that rocket to Mars.


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