"An Indifference” by Charlie Garavaglia
There could be such power in my words—it could crackle from my fingertips as I strike the keyboard, shaking the very foundations of this new world order we've created for ourselves: waking the tired, the half-asleep, those who close their eyes to all but their electronic days; the people who shout into megaphones pointed backwards to hear the ringing of their own voice in their ears.
I could do it. I could change it.
But I don’t.
I stand apart, lucidly mute, indifferent. The electricity from my fingers dampens and dissipates into yet another dopamine chase of digital highs and lights of red, blue, and green.
Later, much later, as the high fades and fatigue replaces, I go to bed, with vague thoughts of incompleteness crowding just beyond my perception.
My head lies upon the pillow—the current is almost gone now, barely enough for a statically charged emotion—and my neurons ready themselves for their electrochemical dance, chaotic and cleansing and devoid of meaning.
And yet and yet and yet and yet—I can’t help but think:
They dream of what may have been.
There could be such power in my words—it could crackle from my fingertips as I strike the keyboard, shaking the very foundations of this new world order we've created for ourselves: waking the tired, the half-asleep, those who close their eyes to all but their electronic days; the people who shout into megaphones pointed backwards to hear the ringing of their own voice in their ears.
I could do it. I could change it.
But I don’t.
I stand apart, lucidly mute, indifferent. The electricity from my fingers dampens and dissipates into yet another dopamine chase of digital highs and lights of red, blue, and green.
Later, much later, as the high fades and fatigue replaces, I go to bed, with vague thoughts of incompleteness crowding just beyond my perception.
My head lies upon the pillow—the current is almost gone now, barely enough for a statically charged emotion—and my neurons ready themselves for their electrochemical dance, chaotic and cleansing and devoid of meaning.
And yet and yet and yet and yet—I can’t help but think:
They dream of what may have been.