If a tree falls...

We are completely, entirely, as a society, entwined in one another. I, for one, know where you are, who you’re with and what you’re doing at most, if not all, times. We are inundated with the thoughts and musings of others, whether they are welcomed, or if they irritate us to the very core of our being. I have seen pictures of your friends, and your friend’s friends. I know what your baby looks like, right out of the womb. I know when you are sad, when you are in desperate need of companionship, when you succeed, fail. I have access to everyone’s everything. We can chat—pick any venue. Facebook, Twitter, text messaging, over-the-phone, e-mail, Skype, even Instagram. There is KiK, WhatsApp, BBM, iMessage, Tinder. You’ll be online somewhere.

And yet, with every opportunity to be in constant communication with others, we are lonelier than we have ever been. And you can knock it all you want, try to escape from it. Turn off your phone, have an off-the-grid day, or week. But you’ll be back, itching for someone to notice that you exist, notice that you are no longer offline. Salivating over Facebook “likes,” reviving with every phone vibration, with every little ring. And you can say that you don’t care, claim to not need the constant validation that comes with connectivity, but you do. We no longer exist unless someone else takes notice, unless someone else comments. We are only ghosts until another’s words colour in the transparent space where we stand. And all we can do is wait. Independence can therefore no longer exist.

But what happens to a society that is so co-dependent? What happens to privacy and to one’s self-worth? Is it possible to regain our independence, revert back to an age before the Internet, before social media and the cell phone, before telecommunications? Probably not.

I can barely keep my phone off for an entire day, and am almost constantly using a device that allows me Internet access. My world revolves around what others are doing, what clever quip I can post next, who has made a nod in my direction and what disastrous photos have been most recently published. I am nosy, narcissistic, impatient. I lack concentration, focus, the desire to leave my home and step away from my laptop. These scary truths may not have been entirely formed due to the rise of social media and smartphones, but there is no doubt that they have amplified exponentially in the years since receiving my first computer with Internet access, since having been gifted my first cellphone. As I look back on these events, I wonder--if they would have been postponed or avoided altogether,  had I never had a cellphone, never googled, would it have changed me?

The answer is this—it couldn’t have been avoided, and therefore, would have never been able to change me. Sure, this may be a cop-out response, a classic case of avoidance, but it’s the truth. Societal norms would have brought me to this place; a place where having no Internet is possibly more detrimental to one’s development than allowing access to it. There is no way I could have made it through college, university, even most of high school, without Internet access. True, social media and the smartphone may still no longer be mandatory elements in a successful, fulfilling North American existence, but we’re getting there. We’re so close to giving up our last bit of individuality and independence, but in turn, making a valuable exchange. We gain a wealth of knowledge and societal solidarity that is so great; it can only be, at the base of it all, a positive trade-off.

I leave you, as I scramble to publish this essay everywhere that I can, Facebook, Blogger, online magazines, with a thought: Does something exist if no one can access it? If no one posts their pictures, thoughts, ramblings, et cetera, all over the Internet, do any of these things even really exist? Perhaps not all of these posts are, to put things nicely, of value to others, but at least they are seen. Perhaps our interconnectivity has allowed for the existence of more art; it is not always of great quality, but exists in greater quantity nonetheless. In considering this, can I, in good conscience, claim to have written this essay if it is never read? Isn’t my goal, then, to paste it wherever I can, to ensure that its existence is known and hope that perhaps it is art in the eyes of someone, somewhere?

maybe it's me.

Everything is a little bit grey today.

A little bit flat, colourless.

I’m not sure if it’s because I can only

See grey nowadays,

Or if it’s because I want it to be this way.

The dog is dreaming, twitching beside me.

And I think, jealously,

How nice it must be to sleep

So goddamn easily.

But maybe it’s me, keeping myself awake.

I don’t really smile anymore.

Not the kind, at least,

That is bold, wide and honest.

But I don’t frown.

Because I'm numb, inherently straight-faced.

There are phases I go through,

Times I think, maybe

I can write it all down, succinctly.

Make sense of it.

But the prose is always choppy, tangled.

So I just go back to bed.

being careful.

i wanted to write it down for you.
scribble it out
fold it up
and place it in your hands.

i wanted you to hold it,
save it for later,
unfold it
and pick it apart slowly.

i wanted them to matter--
those words,
what i felt,
and for you to care.

but instead i wrote them,
and re-wrote them
in my head
and decided never to give them to you.

not.

meticulous

calculated

safe

precise

things i am not.