Silicon and gallium lenses, held up in supplication – a requiem for the real, a feast for the shortsighted. Lost is the sense of wonder, of bare-eyed goggle, replaced instead with a brutal cataloguing of experience, a repackaging of the physical for the swipers, the sofa-saddled.
Would those crafters, those master masons, those flit-fingered painters have sweated and pored by lights – candle, rush, oil – if they knew their creations would be framed by sweaty-fingered glass? Would they have risen from their beds if they knew their fate was to be repackaged and talked over, buried under the suffocating, expanding blanket of ‘content’?
‘Content creation’ this is not, but rather a more modern, savage plea; it is the teary-eyed request for attention, a chorus of desperate, sobbing claims – ‘I was there; I really was!’
Enjoyed this? Sign up to my blog below. Recent short stories include ‘His the Night‘ and ‘Philosophising‘.
Matthew J. Richardson’s fiction has appeared in publications including Golddust Magazine, Flashback Fiction, Close to the Bone, Shooter, and Idle Ink. His work often explores psychological tension, place, and the quiet edges of human behaviour. He lives in Scotland and holds a Professional Doctorate in Education.
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I REALLY enjoyed this one, made the ganglia twitch ; )
Attention and validation are the opium of the masses. I’m an addict, too, returning over and over to my pocket-sized slot machine. The only way to break the cycle is to leave my phone behind and join a group of cloistered monks in a remote mountain enclave. Wait. They probably have internet 🛜.
An excellent metaphor, eh? Good one, Matthew!
well argued, Matthew —