by A. S. Patric
Are we more disconnected?
Are we more superficial?
Does the internet cripple the creative life?
Are we more distracted?
Debased and disillusioned?
Do we abandon a spiritual centre for a cyber stratosphere?
Or is it merely two centimetres of distraction?
Are we ourselves filtered through the thoughts of others?
Are we distillations of the failures and successes of our parents, or perhaps, just our social networks?
How much of myself is originated solely from the private recesses of the singularity that is my ego?
How much of me is already historical, global, communal, whether I want it or not?
Where is all this going?
Where is all this happening?
Is there some point of culmination where consciousness experiences itself as a collective phenomenon?
Do we understand where we have been?
Do we understand where we will be?
Have we seen all the tools we have made, and all the tools we will build, for the machines that are our past and future?
Has an everlasting moment always slipped through our fingers?
Do we stand alone below the stars?
Have we always wondered how to see them properly?
Have we always wondered how to see you properly?
Are there really nothing but questions?
Nothing more than a code of 0s and 1s?
Combinations of such broken figures?
Just so many broken fingers?
Do you think in such fractured circles –> wear such incomplete rings?
Have we been little things?
Have we been voiceless?
Have we been a sum on the other side of the sun?
Have we dreamed and found all our answers and then forgotten such sunless places?
Have I known you and lost you?
Have I misplaced our misread faces?
Printed them wrong, forgotten and gone?
Will we now drift?
Each from each?
Clusters of poetry turning into rings, barely detectable, and spinning around Jupiter?
Powdering out in white dust as far away as Pluto’s underworld?
What we where when we discovered that our planet offers us an absolute answer to everything we could ever ask?
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