Hymn of the Machine

Are you here in the moment? How was lunch? Are you alive? Your digital footprint is transmitted into space. Your tweets and Instagram posts flash before your eyes as you die; there is probably an Instagram slideshow for it. How many likes would you get when they remember you? How many notifications will be thrown into the pyre?

One more hit. Online, online, online. Online in the eternal moment. A lingering presence, embalmed by data. What is your sign? Available. Busy. Don’t exceed the limits of words and ideas. Surveillance begets freedom. The timeline is a reflection of what the algorithms deem significant to you. The system is an extension of your cognitive faculties: a hyperactive self-awareness.

The medium is the message.



What is it about going back? What is the allure of returning? Something out of nothing… for eternity.

Home, the place whence your memories originate, before the beginning.

Something out of nothing. Life gives rise to life. A sentient being suffers then dies. The womb incubates evil.

Can you please stop? I want to find myself. I want this ephemeral life to mean something. Can you please let me go back to make it right? Are our wails wasted in this isolated system?

A splatter on the canvas of creation observes itself and wonders, “what am I?”


Love Synapses

“You don’t love me the same way I love you, and that’s the end of us.”

“How dare you not notice all the times I approached you inside my head? how dare you not react to my inaction?”

“Let’s be honest but not too honest. Allow me to gaze at my reflection in your eyes and I will see the real you.”

“Why won’t you stop being more than what I want you to be?”


A creeping headache holds you in its grip. The aura of hyperactivity and inhibition lulls you into a false sense of security. The body mutinies against consciousness. Pain descends, permeating inside your skull. The type of pain that forces you to squeeze your eyes shut and endure a surge of neurological anguish because it feels better when you finally open them; now you have perspective. The grip tightens.

What does the Buddha say about biting the flesh off someone’s face and feasting on their agony?


The GIF is taken from this source