Medium as forum for a consciousness singularity

For some reason, I have become increasingly aware of my life-in-a-box.

Movies, books, media, radio, websites, consume-consume-cycle-cycle tell me this.

From a simple perusal of Google-Twitter-Reddit-Youtube-Amazon any virtual giant, I can find information on any other person I am thinking enough about to think of their name. Especially the books they write.

From Facebook-Whatsapp-Instagram-Snapchat-Signal, an instant digital touch, magic from fingertip to fingertip, transmitted. Vibrations shared on Spotify. Emotions shared on Gmail-Slack-Messenger-Skype-Oneplus.

From Muni-BART-Caltrain-Toyota-Dansko, a quick journey through physical space brings the warmth of my friends, their sparkling eyes and sweet smiles with the wrinkles deepening ever so slightly with the years, I love to gaze upon them, hug them, feel them hugging me, sharing this miraculous journey called life, we make art and food, eat and visit museums and parks, drink and laugh and do stupid things, and we get sick of each other, don’t call each other, miss each other, rinse and repeat, in love again, with only photos to document each moment a river of memories.

My love and muse, coming home each night, the one I come home to each night, arms wrapped, warmth and fat, cozy protecting/protection will do anything will protect hope trust persevere because this goodness is just too good I can never let go. I wish this love for all I know. I wish it for myself whenever I remember it and don’t have it right at this moment because I realize I am not in the moment in wishing it because that love is all there is in the moment.

Oh, a text. A text from my friend who wants help for her friend to win an etsy small-business contest. A vision of horse-drawn carriage buggy and newspaper man harking in the busy cobblestone street selling another newspaper.

Is it art when there is so much market? Is it love when there are words, mouths, an aura talking outwards rather than in? Is it truth when the packaging is prettier and bigger than the contents?

When I write my truth, I come back years later and enjoy reading it.

When I write for others, the words stumble and falter, my eyes hurt remembering my shame, even though others may applaud/cheer/laugh/promote.

I welcome myself to Medium. Where historians of the future will conduct séances to channel the true raw spirits of the dead. Where, at the moment my cataract-laden eyes may read these words again, they may have a special meaning to me, from today, Wednesday April 5th, 2017. Hello, world.