Life’s hard work is done in the silent moments where nothing is left but images and thoughts. Pain, pleasure, plans, beliefs, memories are all played back in stunning detail, sometimes at half-speed, sometimes edited for precision. High-definition all the way. You learn, you see, and you feel from the distance of a quiet corner. A new throughway opens and in some small way, you now understand.
But the quiet moments are left behind now, filled with text, sound, sights, clutter, voices, beeping, buzzing, appointments, and the inner-voice that rings the bell of reason and sounds the white noise. You need it and it needs you; true reciprocity is a trait of any good two-way relationship.
Quiet was always so boring as a child. Did mom and dad really do all of that with no TV with 80 channels, no 24-hour news, no phone, no computer? And what about grandma and grandpa? I’d die, a surely slow and agonizing death.
It’s almost over. No matter who you are, you’re close to finished. I’m not saying this to be a fatalist, time is just short, is all, so we strive to fill it with visages of ourselves. “They existed,” is really the best any of us could hope for after a certain amount of time, an acknowledgment of cold fact. The chaud becomes froid soon after the lights go out. People forget and, before long, they never knew. Some small fingerprint is left and goes un-dusted.
We know this, despite ourselves, so we bury hints in the hopes that something – anything – grows. Pieces are cut away; a piece here, a piece there. We indiscriminately take a knife’s edge to blurry lines with bleary eyes and cut off another piece to give away. Could this finally be the snip that fulfills? Something interests us – some event, hobby, job, person, website, belief, god, cause, fun, sex, story – and it gets a piece, no questions asked. We can’t afford not to give it. We wait only so long before we cut again and then wonder where it all went.
A whole team of ourselves at our own disposal, indisposed. Waste not want not, and we want. Time is of the essence so we give it our essence.
The time filled with mere diminuendo is hit with the klaxons. No moment stops because it can’t afford to stop. The quiet moments are hereby filled. Your focus is demanded as payment for the free entertainment, the screens you read, the thick stew of pablum, the people who want you to know why someone pissed them off just so and made it how they, like, couldn’t. It’s a steady hum, a tone made just for you.
Your moments aren’t your’s anymore. They’re owned, rented out to you, and paid for with what you think, what you know, what you care about, who you love, what you love, why you love them, where you care to eat, who you care to listen to, what you’re intrigued by, and all those aspects of yourself that you can’t quite see from your point of view. Your persona, your age group, it usually likes this – especially those who check all the same boxes you do.
It’s translated into your language and explained for the first time, feeling somewhat familiar. Why yes, we did know you’d love this. Would you care to see something else almost exactly the same with a modification we think you’ll find quite pleasing? Of course.
There is now a reason for everything. It’s not what you think, but it makes sense. You feel the reason in your marrow and it’s surely logical because it feels so damn good. They like me and I think they’re OK too.
Nothing is random or left to chance, don’t be a fool. The determination has been made by an algorithm so advanced that only it knows what’s next, and that isn’t until milliseconds before it knows. The quiet moments are hereby filled. They didn’t sell. Big smile, now; unhappy isn’t interesting.