Sitting contemplating late into this the eleventh hour of a power outage my thoughts are inclined to turn to the bizarre and unhinged. Living as I do totally immersed in this electronically dominated age I am suddenly bereft of contact, information, connection to anything but mine own imaginings, and quite naturally their dark and conspiratorial foundations.
I say I have no contact but of course I do, the main road is plainly visible through the winter thinned trees but a few hundred feet away. Will I actually brave the chill and attempt interaction? Would a passing motorist do any more than simply swerve and flash me the finger for my trouble?
Valid questions, seeking pertinent answers, but unlikely to find replies responding to any attempts as clarification. I could, I should do something, make some display of being present, functioning, alive. Perhaps place a message in a window, a signal of continuance and viability, but there again who would look, notice, be inclined to trouble? Does it bother me this fog of isolation we all fumble about in during our solitary existences? A little, on occasion, when circumstances force me to face that reality I mostly would prefer to ignore.
This mood, the depression, the truth, will pass soon enough, dissipate in the returning haze of social media that will converge upon me from each and every reinvigorated, reanimated Frankenstein’s monster of a device. Will the reawakening, the sudden reconnection to the oft unreal world we inhabit resolve these palpitations, or simply like the well-meaning platitudes we see are inclined from preference to read and hear make them feel less threatening, less overwhelming.
I am inclined to wonder why I seldom took the time to think in the past, when so much of that time was spent in unimportant and insignificant occurrences and incidents,. But there again it is those same events that inform and elucidate my present, my capacity to see the marionette strings strategically placed upon mine and the worlds shoulders.