30He yells, and my first thought is to write an angry blog on myspace.
Channel the anger, fear, frustration. Into something safe, trapped beneath magic glass that shimmers when run your manicured finger down it. A prison for your thoughts.
Pixelate it, so everything you felt in the last hour is crystallized on the screen.
The Diamonds of Generation Y. Feel your wrath, staring back at you. Homogenized. Sterile. Show everyone how fucked you are without saying a single word to them.
Your blog is now painstakingly crafted; cute font, rainbow colors—you use red to emphasize the really angry parts. The website sends emails flying. Read this! Alert, alert, tiny sentinels of the ego approaching!
And you wait. Drumming your fingers on the keyboard. You wait for a little encouragement, and when it doesn't come you make a hot pocket and forget that last hour. Your drop the crystal into the ocean with each bite. Into the void.
And it falls. Glittering, it falls where no one can reach it because now it doesn't exist. Cyberspace is unreality, and you sink parts of yourself deeper into it everyday.
This crystal mausoleum.
This sepulcher of memory.
A babysitter for emotion, you rely on it for venting, for discarding, for your garbage.
And as integration occurs, as you become bound through blood and gristle to this prison, there is no agony. The patient feels no pain during surgery, because the brain feels no physical sensation.
This is your greatest strength, and this is your greatest weakness. Revel, because it might just last forever.
A/N: He yells, and I write an new chapter! Yes, it has been forever. I need a little motivation sometimes.