Cell…Phone
We rush to our phones. Hooked to it like it’s our mother’s teet. Suckling like bored babies needing something to soothe us from the intensity of the human experience.
So overwhelmed by existing we need something to take the edge off. We need to watch a YouTube video to make waiting at the crosswalk bearable. Something to make us feel “good” at any given moment.
Absentmindedly consuming. Creeping but never commenting. Scrolling and watching other people’s lives rush past us. All while half-assedly doing this thing called life.
All the while trying to escape our existence and placate our bodies so we can work harder, smile more, and pretend things aren’t broken.
The most overfed nation watching people in other countries starve. Watching people in our own country starve as we throw food away. It’s enough to make you want to post about it.
We rush to our phone looking for likes seeking the validation we can’t give ourselves.
Rushing to fill the need to dissociate from life because our bodies disgust us.
Everything’s a medical mystery because we should eat when we’re not hungry but look underfed. How we look supersedes feeling healthy.
What even is healthy? We don’t know our bodies, they’re shameful. You cannot enjoy yourself without arousing suspicion. Are you high? What are you so happy about?
Never forget, you’re never thin enough, muscular enough, enough enough. Or you’re too fat, too thin, too tall, too short. Who is the sociological Goldilocks that decides who gets to feel okay?
We give each other guilt trips and negs, subconscious traps, and limiting beliefs because we can’t admit the truth: we wish we were more.
We wish we were smarter, prettier, more confident, or had more followers. But to be that forthcoming would be too honest, too real, too intense.
People would pop someone else’s balloon rather than go to the picnic table and see there is a bag full of balloons, enough for everyone. But few can understand how a small piece of rubber can become an instrument of joy. It’s really easy if you remember to breathe.
Back in the days before phones when something so trivial as a balloon could bring you joy. It could be anything: a friend bobbing in the air, an angel, a wish that flies away.
Some people are light in spirit. They’re courageous enough to be vulnerable. They can be satisfied with some rubber and air. The feeling of joy is enough. The fleeting moment of happiness met with gratitude, not suspicion.
But then come the balloon poppers. They want no one to be happy. Plus, the people who want to hang their dark shadows on your bright balloon. Weighing it down with feelings that are too heavy. Complaining is draining, Carol! That’s why I’d rather text.
But what if we could be the balloon? Made of steel or diamond. Unpoppable. Impenetrable joy floating on air. Not worried about how it will stay in the air because love and joy are the weavers of miracles and the DNA of dreams. Don’t forget to charge your phone.
