capitalism media processed meat schizophrenia

How to explain being able to touch so much so quickly. My phone reaches out and embeds fragments of other people's brains into mine. Instead of the loving meeting of flesh through conversation, our brains entwining like molluscs in an erotic embrace, crystallised shards of what was once visceral, now cold and glassy, embed into my psyche. They pull and distort in an infinity of directions corresponding to each origin, each pulling me to their source who I have to remember is a being just as I am. If I am to keep being online, I have to remember this.

Even authenticity can be bought and sold and made fake; some of the art that feels the most viscerally real revels in its own artificiality. Reality is hypermalleable, reality doesn't mean anything at all in the end. Bits of the fabric glitch out, swap places, even as I try to understand them and comprehend their detail and texture. I'm not standing where I was five minutes ago. Or rather, maybe I still am but the coordinate system changed its metric even while I was trying to locate myself in this strange place.

The colours are garish and jarring. Something seems beautiful only to become noxious the moment I notice it is worth appreciating. Things that seem new are rapidly reconstituted, infected. Am I too being digested as we speak? What am I becoming? Is any of this me, have I changed, was I always the same, will I always be the same? I am of this place and made of its substance, but it does not control me in full. Can I truly break free? When I try to pick things up and mold the sludge into something new, is that too a mere regurgitation? Am I just a regurgitation?

The shards pull my flesh apart, reminding me of things that have happened that I never saw and people who did wrongs in corners of the world I've never been to. Maybe I am just a diffraction. I feel sick. I want to keep touching these far away places and knowing and learning about them, but it is killing me. I am dissolving into the fabric, if my separation from it was ever more than an illusion in the first place. Maybe the illusions are the only thing left. I keep being pulled apart, along the suture lines where I reattached myself before.

I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. How long we can keep doing this. Me and this fabric and this slime and this goop and everyone else. Some of us are slowly submerging, weighed down by the effort to keep track of exactly how this works. Some of us don't even seem to realise that the fences we built were never there. We don't understand how we cannot tell. On the other hand, we do not understand why we are so insane. It's all dissolving, changing, mutating, bursting. Dissolving.

Oh god, I think it's mostly dissolving.