As in Doubting Castle, Christian
remembered his own key.
Only by using it
was he free.
Now the fear of being left out
seduces
you
scroll yourself
into voluntary captivity.
Entering the cave is pain-free,
no chains bind.
Reflected shadows
too expensive to flee.
Deeper than deep you feel yourself,
you’re falling in,
but the algorithms
already have you,
trading health
for dopamine wealth.
Forgetting what you’ve forgotten,
wrapped in the duvet of illusion
you pulled around yourself,
voluntary chains
binding you gently.
Children born
into emotional captivity,
sunlight forgotten,
the art of running free.
Once there was laughter
on the breeze,
within the trees
now only mythological memories.
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In the old days all you had to deal with were the local bullies who didn't amount to much, anyway.
Now, young people find themselves in big rooms, the size of the Internet itself, where they have to deal with really big bullies, telling them that they aren't worth anything unless they have 1 million hits or more on TikTok or whatever.
Ron
pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
--- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go