Prose Poetry on Lit Up
The Crumbling Edifice of Modernity
Deconstructing postmodernism
in this fragmented cityscape, I walk through the streets, a wanderer in a labyrinth of concrete and glass, where the echoes of past philosophies clash with the neon glare of the present, each step a punctuation mark in the sprawling sentence of existence
I am a flâneur of the digital age, sifting through bytes and pixels, seeking meaning in the dissonance of online voices, the silent roar of data cascading through fiber optics, where identity is fluid, constructed from the detritus of hashtags and algorithms
the world is a collage of contradictions, where high art meets low culture in an endless loop of irony and pastiche, the sacred and the profane intertwined like lovers in a danse macabre, and I am the observer, the critic, the participant in this theater of the absurd
the past whispers through the cracks in the pavement, the ghosts of modernism haunting the shadows of postmodern facades, their once-grand narratives reduced to fragmented slogans and recycled memes, a testament to the dissolution of grand designs
in the café, I sip espresso, a ritual of old-world sophistication in a world obsessed with the ephemeral, the barista’s tattoos a tapestry of postmodern symbols, her piercings a silent rebellion against the tyranny of the past, her eyes reflecting the boredom of a generation
the architecture of the mind is a palimpsest, layers of meaning overwritten by the relentless march of time, and I, the scribe, attempt to decipher the glyphs of existence, each thought a brushstroke in the painting of my consciousness, each word a note in the symphony of my soul
in the gallery, artists deconstruct art, transforming the canvas into a battlefield where tradition and innovation clash. Chaos overflows the frames, and I, the viewer, find myself both implicated and detached, witnessing the collapse of the old order and the birth of the new
the city hums with the energy of postmodern life, a mosaic of cultures and languages, each street a chapter in the ever-unfolding story of humanity, and I, the narrator, am both a part and apart, a voice in the chorus of existence, singing the song of the present
and as the sun sets, casting long shadows over the crumbling edifice of modernity, I stand on the precipice of understanding, the horizon a blur of possibilities, and I whisper into the twilight, “we are the architects of our demise, the builders of the new babel, lost in the labyrinth of our creation.”
Ani Eldritch 2024
