In between hyperconnected information skies,
And interconnected geo-engineered planet earth,
Am I disconnected?
“Disconnected from what?” I asked passively while scrolling through the infinite success stories and the formation of industries' latest ideologies on the LinkedIn feed.
— “Look at you." Just look at you. Looking for a job?
“Why should I?" I’m enjoying this huge library. "In fact, I love it!”
— “Whoaa, that surprised me.”
— “The fact that you used the word ‘love’.”
“Whatever. "I'm the king of this self-help section.”
— “See. Look at you, you made it seem more obvious. “The king of the self-help section?” I frowned.
“I felt sorry..”
— “Don’t, please, don’t feel sorry for yourself." "We've talked about this!”
“Look at your pathetic self.”
"We've been surrounded by an enormous number of books—information sculptures." We have access to all this information. Information overload, or are we misinformed? "Are we stranded on this information highway?”
— “So what?” I replied while taking a book out of the bookshelf:
The Secret of Secrets
HADRAT ‘ABD AL-QADIR AL-JILANI
Shaykh Tosun Bayrak al-Jerrahi al-Halveti
“Ugh, this doesn’t belong here." "I hate it when people do this.”
I took the book and skimmed through it, stopping at page 93. I glance at my phone. It's 6.30 p.m. It's time to go.
— “Can you at least wipe your tears first before we go home?"
My steps accelerated to the point that the pave stones seemed to move vertically towards me, like a conveyor belt, like a scroll of endlessly curated micro-moments of instant self-actualization in a box, food porn, proud parents' children’s, inspiring quotes, pseudo-Sufi quotes, curated picnics, curated objects, status, a gleaming live feed of collective reality shows: a grand narrative of curate’s egg — with the dominance of the spiritually bankrupt.
I strode across the London College of Gentrification’s block towers, then the modular tower stacks of vacant premium flats, and finally the blocks of Golden Bullion leading towards the colossal Prosperity Golden Pig mall with its snouts attached to the ground, the mall’s grand entrance. The belly is a translucent section where the main concierge and the high fashion shops are located. And the only way out is through the large exit under the tail, referred to as the grand exit. I walked through its expansive yard, which was carpeted with the most advanced AI biodegradable artificial grass, which sequestered three times more oxygen than living grass, powered by the private artificial solar that swarmed over Prosperity Golden Pig.
— “Don’t you want to look at the transition of the artificial solar to artificial lunar?" It's just in another 15 minutes”
“Not in the mood”
I used to watch the transition. Well, most people do, passer-bys stopped to watch it. People gathered in groups and picnicked in the mall garden to enjoy the transition. But I enjoyed it for a different reason. It always brings back good old memories of my childhood, running in the park, climbing the hill, and rolling down.
Pig & Castle used to be an oppositional binary of old and new, traditional and contemporary, upper class and proletarian, quiet and noisy, which stimulated my senses as I was about to desensitize from the world. Masala, Halloumi, Parsley, Sumac, Malt Vinegar, Myzithra, Caerphilly, Thymes, Red Fox Gloucester, Garlic Soy Sauce, and Star Anise hit my most sensitive sensory receptors, only to be cleansed away by coffee flowing down my throat like a stream of caffeinated consciousness.
Dad used to buy a large pack of monkey nuts, and we fed the front yard squirrels. I’ve never imagined I’d appreciate this mundane moment. Then I realized that witnessing the transition from artificial solar to artificial lunar only evokes those good old nostalgias.
— “or perhaps Solastalgia?”
Neologism that describes a form of emotional or existential distress caused by environmental change.