Everyone seems so shallow, barely venturing beyond the skin deep. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but we spend so much time simplifying it into a handful (or ten). Filtering our experiences. Cropping out our emotions. Enhancing our self est. Fragmenting our pain. I want that which is real. Raw. Visceral.  Beyond the selfies.  Beyond the hashtags.  Spending more time cultivating your avatar than your own body. What are we afraid of? What feels better than being with flesh and blood? Our words have become so hollowed out, meaningless.  Corpses in a never-ending virtual graveyard. There’s irony in that we want to stake our claim in individuality, yet all our words, our pictures, and so uniform, so predictable.  We want to share our moments of joy. We are terrified of sharing our misery. That we are lonely. That we are poor. That life is incredibly boring, yet we spend each moment waiting for that small, infinitesimal feeling of joy. Only to eviscerated it and dilute it, to share to the world. This lie that we live in.


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