Sheltered, skewed-reclusive, and boisterous. We are but multi-faceted creatures, born from adaptability and a relentless desire to belong. Strip us of our masks, our faux-design and we perish. Our identity- what we distill, the dribble of what we perceive to be our essence, is nothing more than a façade. The façade keeps us within our niche and grants us a class, title, rank, and purpose in the chaos. We yearn to be seen, the adulteration of identity. Individualized as so to conceive and convey the concept of understanding the “self”, but what is the “self”? Is it the unique display of characteristics, contrived and altered, morphed and molded to fit the structure of mass? Or is it the subtleties, the idiosyncratic expressions of mannerisms, the twinges of our makeup, predestined and determined through the code, native to our DNA? What I know, is that we are a fearful species. We are gathered in herds and stables, as to be nullified and lobotomized. Not through the classical sense of “pick in the eye”, but in a much more effective affectatious manner. A careful, tactically-shadowed approach to dull the senses and lull the council of intellect. We must be wary of what we ingest, in the manner of food and otherwise. We are open to attack, our defenses have been withered and the enemy is already within the fortification of our minds. Data. Oh, Great Data. The stream that never ceases. A constant bombardment of dialogue, monologue, and otherwise distasteful content that is poisoning the soil. The harvest is barren. The communion of humanity is divisive, we no longer share the connection to the divine. We worship our devices, and the God that serves the black screen is malicious, for what is eviler, to detest the condition or to accept its terms and conditions? But, to detest the condition is to renounce life itself. For if I’m not seen, if I’m not recognized, if I do not gather a following that only follows to be followed, I will no longer exist. To be a castaway is to commit the ultimate sin. The sin of rebellion. I would be close to Satan himself. Falling from the heavens of social normalcy, I would lose all contributions from un-committing myself to the God of the Black Screen. And I ask, who would dare do that? Who would dare reject the scripture of the Meta, of the Great and Powerful Algorithm? If the God of the Black Screen is omniscient, if it knows my thoughts, my desires, my likes and disinterests, if it knows me so well as to recognize and analyze my keystrokes, then it must know that my soul is already tainted. That I’m already falling. That my faith has been lost. For the almighty sees us all.
How do we correct our path? How do we steer the course of humanity in a new direction? The horizons that we see are bleak, grey, and lifeless. They are iPhones in your face, cameras in limitless directions. The live feed is preying on the livestock. We are pumped full, fat, and ready for our demise. It is from within that we realize that we can live without. But to do so, we risk. And although we are addicted to gambling, the stakes in this game seem far too high. So, what we must do, is gather the Shepherds. Those who mask as sheep to redirect and camouflage themselves within the herd. Are you a sheep? Do you bleat? Or do you influence? This is a question you must ask yourself. If you are a sheep: well then- happy grazing and remember to pay tithes to your God of the Black Screen. I’ve heard that your God takes payment in ‘hours served’, and his favorite hymns are sung in the forms of Tiks and Tok’s. If compensation is not met, your penance will be rash and without mercy. If you are a Shepherd: it is time to reclaim your seat amongst the rest of us. We; have worn sick of illusion, disinformation, misinformation, and whatever meme-like disease that has plagued our lives, minds, and health. We seek refuge, we seek justification for a system unbound and dedicated to trickery and ill-intent. We seek to revolt and spur revolution, not by employing pitchforks and fire, but in redirection- for that is what we do best, guiding. We are shepherds after all and as shepherds we must protect the stock. The wolves do not know the definition of famine, they have been bred in a golden age of feasts. Pups to maturity, their fathers and grandfathers have made sure of that. Truth is your cause, and your mind’s the ultimate weapon. If this resonates, then there are many “fallen angels”, and the God of The Black Screen is already aware of your descent.
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