#6 Catalogue of Confusion
It is listening to two writers talk on the internet. It does not remember what was said in the past hour, but it is listening. It is wondering if the internet qualifies for true human connection. At what point does culture consume the individual that there is no humanity left? It wonders if there was a line that could alienate the individual from the culture, if culture would not demand space beyond the line. What kind of alienation is it looking for, and is this alienation not a symptom of the said culture it wants to negate? It is listening to the writers talking, and it wonders how it is different from going out into the world.
It finds it hard to believe that the anachronistic romanticism of all non-technological communication is the way to preserve its humanity. The comfort in the non-essential communication is lost to it. It is a voyeur in its own skin. It is looking at the world as an alien thing, that has no form, and it is watching it morph. There is something leaking within the confines of the culture, and it is trying to develop a theory on it. The mimetic evolution of an amoeboid culture that seems to be expressing itself all around it is so alien to its biological memory. The alien curiosity with which the absurdity of the culture presents itself is nauseating. It is aware that irony has turned self-referential, that the culture is built impervious to mockery. To mock culture has been made into a mockery. There is no space for expression, because all expression is lost. The overabundance of content has reduced art to a commodity, and it is wondering what the essence of creation is? Where is the metaphysics which does not border on delusion, but offers hope? If the promise of art as an eternal universality, as an embodiment of something truly cosmological and yet human is forever lost? Have we broken the bridge that connected us to the metaphysical without turning it into an institution, or the scientific rationale has confined us to an irreversible march towards extinction of all beauty, but one in certainty? If this question is only limited to art, or if in an abundant culture, the very promise of abundance nullifies any true medium of expression by imitating it to the point of its extinction.
It does not know how to connect with people. This alienation is one that has been cultivated over years. It is sprouting out of him visibly, spreading all over his face in a form of self awareness. It does not feel at ease with itself. It is lacking the human connection that it cannot forge with itself. It is sitting in a pub, and it is wondering why does a place that offers an avenue for socialisation drown itself in incoherent noise? To transmit language is a challenge in one place that it should not be. It looks around and sees faces that seem to be drowning in an inconsolable loneliness. On the dance floor, a spectacle of humanity, a constrained emission of all anarchy that has been trapped in an individual, a letting go within the illusion of freedom. A tiny corner allocated to it to express itself, and then to drink till it loses its awareness. This hellish consciousness that needs to be limited, needs to find an avenue to be released and placated. It wonders if this is how the structures which constrain us function, how the capital flow is maintained, through people tired of their lives driving like sheep to bars and pubs, drinking themselves numb to spend the excess money which ensures they remain tired. It wonders how a conversation is commodifed, an artificial atmosphere built for all forms of communication or non-communication. It wonders if it began screaming, would anyone hear or would the music drown out the voice too? It looks at the primitive sexuality cloaked in modern culture, at play. A performance that is carefully maintained through a shared vocabulary that is not decided by the individuals but the culture itself. It is a part of the play just by its existence, to be gazed at, to observe and contemplate, a voyeur searching for the essence without prior notice or consent. It is so lost in its own alienation that it completely misses the little humanity that experience has to offer.
It does not want to contain itself in language. It does not understand culture. It knows that most creation would end up being a farce, an imitation till it is lost to abundance. It does not live in the delusion of profundity. It knows that the defense against irony is to contradict yourself, to contemplate on culture and yet never negate it. It does not even want to contradict anything. It wished it knew what it wanted.
It existed right where it could give up to the sense of alienation, yet it was persevering. It often wondered what this perseverance was? Was it some lingering faith in life, or a wild optimism that had refused to give away? Yet, it was there and sometimes it was telling itself that it is proof enough for the essential. It knew that it was lie.