They won’t let me encase myself in a brick. By them I mean me; I mean myself. Projected, of course, onto the greater, wider public, the society at large, et al. I can’t get rid of my social media, because then I lose my connections. However, I’m also slowly suffering the loss of those neural connections which used to make humans so, oh so, so so special. It’s like my brain is fascist-asising, each region excluding itself from greater consciousness. They’re isolating themselves until the only international, cross-continental travel across my globe, my fleshy matter, is an ambassador for deep thought. It asks the representative of motor control to pour milk over my bran flakes, so that I might consume them and begin my mediocre, hollow, eggshell pondering.
Who are we (society et al., me) fooling when we give away our social media handles as if they are a genuine expression of us wanting to talk to another human being? If I had a brick phone, imagine how much more selective I would be with giving that out. What, an acquaintance calling my real phone number, not my self-moji or my profile? Fuck off, that’s private, that’s sacred, my mum calls me there. What kind of phone-slut do you take me for?
When I give someone my Instagram and I say to them “I’m waiting for you to accept my request” and they say “Oh that’s funny I didn’t even know it was private” and I don’t reply and they add me and then they follow me and it pops up and I put my phone down and I gaze out the window at my own glassy reflection wondering where it all went wrong, not a single part of that was personal. My account follows your account. My Barbie wants to be friends with your Barbie. Can they have a picnic together?
I yearn for the brick. I had one some three or five years ago and already my purest self watches omnisciently at the pale, slack-jawed zombie I have become. I delude myself that watching long-form videos is better than the Babellian Jenga tower of Brainrot, which is ever descending with unlimited swipes, but ultimately the information is not retained. I eat sausages, mushrooms, beans and eggs with art history, theory, film reviews and theology, and all I have at the end of it is a mind as empty and stained as my plate. Ultimately, both experiences – enjoying a nice meal or enjoying a nice video essay – are both reduced to function. Fuel and some mind candies. Who wants to hear the song of the birds or the song of myself? Instead, pour a one-hour Song of Myself analysis played at double speed right into my ear! It’s all I want. It’s all I can take. I just want inner peace, and that’s why I’m going to stay up till 4 AM poring over all human thought.
Smother me in cement. I am ready to become brick.