Death of the Internet
And the end of the Electric Age
Councils and meetings every day
It’s the opposite of my life. My life is not purely individualist. My life right now is connected. Very connected but just to a smaller group of people. Things just are a little less straightforward seeming. I like it when things do not seem straightforward. Memories of the past haunting this or that. I feel purpose when I connect to another time. But then I am back here and I forget. Sound fills me up in this silly weird way. Do I want to work on metal for my life? Love. and gems. Precious moment. I can learn a bit. The music in my fingers reads so small. And that’s okay.
I have no orchestra or army.
Like in my dream last night, where a queer revolt was led by performers, entertainers. Internet presences, all lining up by a wall, where we were being called in to fight each other. It was meant to be a ring, but we escaped. And the question becomes what now? We were warriors. And we fought each other not for fun, but out of fear. Under punishment of death. Social death, real death. Weapons, death. Bombs hanging over our mentality. The nuclear bomb as a pillar to hide our love. I can know that music is a forum. We sing to figure out a battle strategy. What next?
We are out of that arena. We see the walls behind us. And the sky is closing in. what do we do next? Train tracks nearby offer nothing. Empty concert halls all around, but we can’t stay for long. The cameras are off.
It was meant to be a queer fighting show. A dystopian death arangement. Entertainment. But we saw the cameras. We saw the noise.
We mourned our dead. We cried and called it war. And then in a burst of electricity, the cameras all fell from their metal spikes. It only took a moment for the broadcast to end. And who knew where we were? Every moment automated in our arrival. We were not worth the time to oversee. So here, on these salty rocks. In this abandoned arena. There is no overseer. There is no camera crew. There is no audience. There is no gun being held.
And no way to find us. Without the power, our location is lost. Except to a rare pathfinder or zealot, who remembers the skies. We have been lost to our captors. And they have not realized.
Their power is out. And they fear the air itself. They fear the heat. They fear the cold. They fear the future. Their guns aim at each other. And they forget about us.
And so we are here, at this arena in the dessert, with our celebrity host. And we ask each other, what now? What the fuck do we want to do? What the fuck are we going to do? What the fuck are we going to do? What the fuck are we going to do? What the fuck are we going to do? What the fuck are we going to do?
Us influencers? Entertainers? Media commentators? Personalities… What the fuck are we going to do to survive? Cause there’s no reason to fight. The guns have fallen into the distance. We are lost to the outside world. We are free. We are free.
And if bombs come above, that is not our world. That is a memory of the past, haunting us with nitrodeath. Haunting us with irradiated smoke.
The sun beams above, cover us in heat. What can we grow? What can we grow? What can we grow? What can we grow? What can we grow?
How do we live, now that we are free?
