The Social Media Bubble in the Age of Trump is Unbearably Torturous

But, I can’t get out unless you help me

My personal life is in limbo. Not in a way that is life threatening but in that relatable sense that you can register when I get to the parts that resonate. The job market is shit, people in general are even shittier and it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to sustain relationships while planting the seeds for potential growth with the branches you encounter.

I left Facebook a year ago because like you — I was tired of being handled with care as if the craziness out there needed a better funnel of expression. I was spooked by the audacity of believing the façade of what human contact can initiate when the lines of doubt merge to create options that we either like or ignore.

Twitter became my fascination of choice — mainly because there was a spirited acceptance from strangers who validated my pursuits without wanting much in return. You feel connected and wired up with a community that erodes any doubt that you may have had about your ability to attract like-minded folks — or even the eggheads that peek out every once in awhile.

Instagram was a last minute call but there is no doubt that it was worth the try. The glazed over images that drag me into streams of emotions that vacillate between carefree observation and the undiluted screening of lives that seem to have it way better than you — but then for how long?

Those were the early days of my dalliances with inventions that exist to wear us down as the protective shield that kept us sane and humane for the sake of us all — withers at will.

All bets are off — as the wasteland of delusion leads us astray. We’ve been cropped for the purpose of resurfacing key phrases and batting them back and forth like a game that refuses to end — despite the lethargic themes that massage our daily intake.

I’m the worst of them all.

I devour my timeline with the appetite of an over weight kitten who prefers to stay put and digest the surroundings with weary pride. The habit is old enough to be a life source but ever since we ushered in our new president, the abuse has been lethal.

To be honest, it has been so intolerable that I have mastered how to tolerate it even in the shadows of the darkness that shapes my iPhone into a portal — that vomits the leftovers from over-zealous outlets and the flattened fingertips of users who have become Citizens of Trump.

We belong to this nightmare and it has enveloped us with feverish ownership.

This is our time to be dull and stapled to the wall that carries our inherent desire to be logically needy in the face of great adversity.

The set up was magnificent.

We were supposed to be governed by the vile system in place and it all came about while you were uploading the pics to prove why your “Baecation” rivals all the other “Baes” within your vicinity. It was meant to be — this fierce climate of ridiculed trash with the juggling of words that mean very little, but explode into energy spent retweeting the blockage — instead of preparing the necessary itinerary for the days ahead.

Social media in the age of Trump is unbearably torturous.

But the pain of the dungeon is silent in the midst of comfort that collects when we facilitate the rhetoric from out of the mouths of detractors as if we are freedom fighters — when all we’re achieving is the biblical display of the apocalypse.

We are on the edge of nonsense.

It’s our turn to straddle the historical renderings that will propel generations to come. It’s not fun to be in the middle of confusion because my nightly headaches don’t allow my eyesight to restrict its penetration from the alerts and the notifications that never deliver what I don’t already know.

We are fucked, but not for life. Just long enough to test how far we can fall into the depths of unconsciousness — until we end up conscious.

Don’t let me fall and I promise to do the same for you.