Nothing is unique on a typed interface…

Click. Click. Tap. Tap. Click.

Attachment sent

At the end of the string of e-mails, I think it’s finished. I breathe. I roll my shoulders, tilt my chin ever so slowly up towards the cold ceiling, reposition myself in the desk chair. Shuffle papers.

Click. Click. Tap. Tap. Click.

You like this page

Facebook tells me what to do. It tells me what I know. Evenings connected by the ‘Refresh’ button fail to clear my mind. I keep searching, digging, scrolling for threads of information. But I am only left with a blank space, a blank screen; news that isn’t really new at all. It’s recycled, formed and re-formed from thousands and thousands of feeds. Like animals at the zoo, trapped, curtailed, waiting for some sustenance to continue through the monotony.

Click. Click. Tap. Tap. Click.

#maureenjohnson Once again, I am The Only Person Not Watching the Award Show. IT’S WHAT I DO.

Hashtag. We try to connect through wires, link ourselves to another person based on the fact that we too can break away from reality in a fiber optic world. We follow someone greater than ourselves, more real, it seems, in order to gauge our own sense of malnourishment. Something is made real purely by the fact that a celebrity, or a monkey with hands, has written it. We believe everything we see. I can relate to you, because I have made you real.

Click. Click. Tap. Tap. Click.

Would you like help writing this letter?

A paperclip is trying to attach disparate elements of my life. Trying to connect my thoughts in a way I am unable. Nothing is unique on a typed interface. How many others use Times New Roman? I’m typing in New, trying to type in New in order to make coherent sense of my demands, of a whole generation’s demands. For a job, for experience of the ‘real’ world we constantly tag at.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

How are you?

Do you want to meet up sometime?

My hands trace the thin metallic surface, made by equations. Thousands wield HTCs and iPhones, but, surely, this text is personal, is private, is real?

Tap. Tap.

My fingers push against the timber. I feel the cool door-handle, moistened by droplets of rain and sweat. The door jingles. I step inside, the warmth of an open fire roses my cheeks. My glasses steam due to the burning flames, hot coffee, and the effervescent laughter of company.

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