I exist in this realm to feel, to live, to experience, yet when I look upon the faces of those dawdling through their lives, I question if that is the purpose for all.
A man walks down the street talking with a friend. Their voices carry through the night, tinged with the smell of liquor and rife with a subtle melancholy. The conversation they engage in is pulled from the script of culture. There is nothing that comes out of either of their mouths that have not been uttered before — talk of shows, of films, of current events. They engage by the affinity of their points, feeling validated with every agreeance, and fighting for every differing point. What is the point? Why suffer through the banal nature of this discussion? It has all been said before, and now it echos from their mouths, reverberating from the emptiness inside of them.
Do all fall victim to this conversational redundancy? Is there any escape from the life of plastic men and women? We sit around and discuss everything, yet say nothing. All of the ideas that are spewed across a dinner table, down the bar, in the boardroom, are all useless. Most say nothing new at all, and it begs the question: are they even real? Like the facade of a vivacious downtown on a backlot set in Hollywood, people walk about this world with the same hollowness, the same lie of substance. Only they do not see it because they are it.
How can one know they are a facade if all around them are facades as well. There is a belief in the same grand lie that they are filled with substance. The question then becomes, can you transform into something more? Can you be reborn in the real, burning away the shell that encases you?
It blinds you. It cages you. Yet none seem to realize it is so. Moments in time cross the lives of men and women, and they have a glimpse beyond the cage. They see, no, they feel something real. The shell has cracked, and the soul can finally be born to them. That point in time can be at an early age, an old age, or never. When this initiatory moment occurs, society itself tells us we have to repair the cracks, we have to continue within the shell — but why?
What does it mean to break free of the shell, to transform oneself and be birthed into reality? Is this a process to be sought after, or does it bring undue turmoil? The plastic ones exist in order to protect themselves from the truth, even if they aren’t aware of their own protection, even if they don’t understand that there is much more to life than the surface dimension. Facades cannot give the substance needed to fully experience life, yet the creation of facades is all that is incentivized in the modern world. How can one have hope in such a place?
If one is transformed, cracking their shell and birthing into reality, they find darkness at first. Feeling naked in the dark, one must learn the rules of this new world. This new world can see you, just as you now see it. Those who have broken free are rare, yet evident when met. The plastic ones can feel one who has transformed, though it is unconscious to their understanding. Watching the plastic people react to birthed souls is a fascinating scene, for they pull from the script of culture, a script that already exists.
And for those awakened to the real, watching the conversation of plastic people is like watching a film you’ve already seen. Interactions with others become more predictable and hollow. Where are the real? Why do they hide in a sea of plastic? Is it dangerous to be real? Does it threaten retribution if found out?
