This is an age of insanity. Of instant ingestion. Consumption. Consuming. We live as beings in a cataclysmic relationship with reflection. Reflection and revision at all costs. These are the times. The days where people. Places. Entities. Corporations. And otherwise. All these spaces where your story can begin. Can be shifted. Can be tweaked and quirked and spoken for. Who is speaking for you? Who is telling your story? What becomes of the space you hold when the holding, is, itself, up for an intense debate?
The grasp. Clasp. Crunch. Squeeze of ownership. Is it possible our stories are melding together? Are our spirits actually as singularly identifiable as our separate government numbers and names? What exactly are you doing here?
If you find yourself struggling as a creative in a world astutely focused on quantifying your worth by means unintelligible to beings not born and named, human, you’re not alone. Or you may be the type of being entrenched in the popular and heavily ingested casual validation of self-possession.
Are you obsessed with your infallible über-humanity? Were you among the those who were lucky enough to be born, and be born human of all species? Well, then, we have a conundrum. Most children can’t tell the difference between a delicious ice cream cone topped and toppled with pistachio flavored ice cream and the vibrational promise of a black hole. I’m going to ask you again. What are you doing here?