The everydayness of content chips away at spirit if left unchecked. Even the deepest insight turns stale if daily recited.
In something so seemingly random and vastly replenished as Tumblr (insert most current bumblepuppy here) there is this same grinding repetition of selves burning their effigies into ash. Where dull lives inform dull fantasies with but one story to tell. A grossness not of the technology but (in part) of the frequency of use, creating and consuming at speeds incommensurable to meaning. The reductive urgency overwhelms me, so many acting all at once, in unison and repeatedly, a display of fireworks without end.
Five, ten years later, one could return to the same blooms of being, locked-in, that never left. The resin of a life leftover, preserved and perverted and weightless. We are given but part of the life, the least interesting part, the unlovable part. There is no meaning in a thousand proclamations strung together, no meaning in anything that can persist in the everyday. Not this, not anything.
For this or anything to have meaning it has to go home with you long after the network has been turned off. It has to begin and end in you. It has to begin and end at all.