The entire world is in our back pockets. 
Our perceived worth is in the other. 
 
Condensed into a hand-size machine, everything humanity has ever seen. My head aches as technology abuses my brain chemistry. 
My eyes burn from blue light, consumed by the escape. Interesting how our race is so distant, yet all in the same place.
This is not self-harm, but we are harming ourselves.
Our friends, foes, futures, and forsaken mental health. 
 
In the other pocket, a piece of metal framed in colored plastic. With or without it, might determine our health and lavish.  
A medium between what we have and what we owe. A representation of our will in the form of an 8 to 12 digit code. 
We are all marked by this value. Some, displayed like a target on their head. We are controlled by it too. Some, already wounded and bankruptcy bled. 
 
The entire world is in front of my eyes. 
The governor of my life is behind them. 
 
Experience what you fancy, except you must have the means to do so. But what about those who can't see what we see, even with our eyes closed?
"Live your best life" and "do what you're told". But on whose moral compass? And is the artist featured in their own tableau?
I could climb the highest of mountains, and point to where Earth ends. But what about those not privileged to walk or exercise full cognition?
 
What is in control? Who contemplates these thoughts that never end? Who processes these emotions? Why does life feel like pretend?
Who is it that consumes every primary sense of this world? What is it that dictates when modern customs turn scurriled?
Who guides my eyes, and what is a conscious mind. And why is mine constantly wondering: what even am I?



Wednesday 12 March 2025