THROUGH A GLASS…RATHER DARKLY

 The young man sits hunched over his device in the semi-darkness. His thumbs dance easily across the glass surface which pulsates with light, the light casts patterns across his troubled countenance. Sometimes the young man groans, sometimes he cusses with fury. The ratty couch in which he sits has seen better days, the apartment smells of stale fast food and undone laundry, but his eyes never stray from the small glass screen. Sometimes he lounges back in the stained couch and stretches his stiff body while he scrolls with one thumb, looking, searching and examining lives and attitudes from across the land. Such reach. The young man sits up in excitement, he see’s something inspiring; he laughs aloud for joy, but keeps scrolling. The young man then leans forward, his countenance changing to concerned. This can’t be! This shouldn’t be allowed!  The young man leans forward once again, thumbing furiously. Such an outrage! 

This is abuse of ————. And you must support the —— to fight it!

   The young man is galvanized, he is excited! This unkempt and unloved young man can suddenly pour energy, to great effect, back through the screen of the device, and into a matrix of entertainment, news, government and power. He feels as if he is part of the movement, he is totally ignorant of the concept of a revolution. Revolution is just a real cool sounding thing a cool guy would do; it might even get him laid. The simple concept of pawns being used in a bigger game is lost on him. Right now his power is white hot, pouring through the screen to  a “user” named _nevahoe_12. This loser is a fake, probably an alt———-, our young man in the dank apartment is a warrior! He obliterates _nevahoe_12 with lighting rhetoric. Then after //slash24 found the stats about the claims that ——- wasn’t in cahoots with the ——- from the ——— party, everyone knew what had to be done.

The young man sits bolt upright, breathing heavily. The reality almost overwhelms him. I mean, It’s time? All the rhetoric he has seen through screens aboutrighting wrongs in meat space; is it now? The young man stands up, brushing the Dorito crumbs off his pants, his device in his left hand; it dings. The young man sighs and sits down, and he again begins to absorb the multi-coloured screen energy.He slumps, that was false flag started by the ——— to bolster the counter revolution of the ———- . Well, that’s a downer, the young man switches to a more personal social network to commiserate, and lounges into the lumpy couch. The energyflows with emotion, back and forth, colours glitter from the glass; satisfaction ensues. The screen is a gateway to a world that our young man feels at home in, a better world, a world of power and wonder; then the screen went black.
I mean the frickin screen just went black! The young mans shrunken frame propels him upright in a bouncing panic, he knew that the battery was at 50% a short time ago, what the #&! Pushing the few analog “buttons” on the sides of the device yields nothing, the device had been acting up for awhile now, flickering off randomly. The young man throws the device on to the ratty couch cushion and immediately senses the loss, he thinks about his laptop, dead these three months now.
The realization that the mobile device is probably pooched (it is old, by at least 3 revisions) and he doesn’t have the means procure another, makes the man thrust his face into his palms; the sudden realization that he is cut off from the others drags a tortured sob from his thin torso.
To be cut off from the sharing is bad enough, the transfer of positive “vibes” alone was huge, but to be cut from the power! This was his means to make a difference! In the matrix arena he had a power, he had followers, he had influence! Now he couldn’t know what was “going on”, he didn’t even know the %&$#@ time! “A device should be a human right!” The man’s mind screams.
The young man lets out one last sob, then suddenly stands up. He could go next door, they had a party there three days ago and things were cool he’d heard, the door often stood open. That was the universal signal for social congregation in the crowded vertical warehouse. Time to get together and medicate. Medication was bad, the young man knew this, he’d known that from a lad, he hardly ever indulged, and only in moderation. The thought of other humans gave him a warm feeling, that was soon followed with a sharp pain of anxiety. Thoughts of diseases and social rejection were weighed against the chance of meeting a “hot babe”, not good odds. But the single factor that buoyed our hero’s courage was just the connection, the idea that he was a “part”, and that he might know what was “going on”.
The young man suddenly stands straighter , he’d better comb his hair, maybe brush his teeth; he’s going out! He involuntarily sniffs his right armpit, a shower is probably in order. It’s suddenly overwhelming, all that effort. Our young man is really devastated by the realization, the realization as to why he is actually venturing out. He needs to find a connection, not really a human one, an electronic one. He will beg, borrow, or snoop any device that will allow him to “check” and “connect” with his haunts and allies. There will be no relaxing luxury of his “social” connections. It will be a digital hand to mouth. The young man sobs again, involuntarily. No amount of medication could help him in this moment, besides, that is the usual rout of escape from this world, you get cut from connection, then medicate yourself till death. He flops down onto the couch, coils into a ball, and gives in to sorrow.
The young man slowly comes to the realization that his defunct device is sticking into his thin ribs, almost calling to him. Wiping his face with one hand he reaches under his body with the other.The stink of the apartment was strong, and the couch uncomfortable, but our young man pulled his device out and holds it before him; almost reverently. With shaking fingers he presses all the “buttons” that the phone possesses. He begins pressing them in involuntary patterns, chanting “c’mon;c’mon;c’mon. The young man is using all the power of his person, all his vibrations, all his moon power, animal energy, soul power @##$%$ anything, just so the screen might lighten and allow the transfer of energy. The old/young man stares into the black screen till his eyes water; please God! Let me see!….. And suddenly the young man sees.
Our young/old man sees a dim image in the glass, a humanoid image, barely. The glass is liquid black, no energy flows. Everything Is dim. The low bulb in the corner of the room reflects in the obsidian screen as a flare, but the dim image of the young man shows him more detail than he is ready to see. The eyes in the muted reflection are both panicked and tired. The hair is everywhere, and longer than remembers, his countenance is as a lunatic that has become bored with madness. But the wrinkles scared the young man the most, they just couldn’t be! I’m a young man! But the wrinkles won’t lie. The young/old man then sees the periphery, the shabby ill fitting clothes, the dimness of the surroundings; his belly growls.
This?! This God?! A damn reflection?! Screw you, this is just scientism or something! But then the young man sees something else; the smudges. Over the reflected and alarming images of reality are the smudges, the smudges take over and suddenly blur the image. Deep smudges, layered by the constanttouch of fingers coated with deep fry grease and sweat. Millions of taps, thumb massages, and finger swipes, left patterns on the dark glass. Layered trailings of fevered taps and swipes. Our young/old man is suddenly shown the truth. God grants him that. He sees his soul as a dim image, never to be defined, always questioned as to whether it’s real, or just a latent digital illusion. The smudges,those greasy smudges make him sick despite his hunger, and its not about the composition of the grease, it’s what the layers of filth represent. The relentless typing and swiping, the debasing and erasing, the vilifying and ass kissing; and for what? He knew that buried in the layers of grease were the multiple taps and a swipe that cost a professor his job, a mayor his seat, and maybe even a young suicide; her life. But he was just part of the energy! It wasn’t really just him! He was just one of many! But the grease on the black screen just looked thicker, covering his dim soul image; and the device was just as dead.
The young/old/non-man fell to the stale carpet, clutching the dead device to his heart; sobbing uncontrollably.

– Anomic Ranger