Talkin’ bout a revolution

I have not written in five years. I have posted, chatted, commented, and replied—squandered away words all over the internet—only to realize half a decade later that I remember little of what I wrote, and none of what I felt. In that time algorithms have read my words with increasing diligence and served me advertisement and outrage that marketers deem fit for a human of my predicament. Algorithms understand.

In absence of written record I am forced to consider only some parts these years at a time and can’t always arrange them one after the other. As a result the story that I form is not only jarring, it is non-linear. This, I have decided is not acceptable. I don’t mind so much the anachronism, as I do the frightening holes in memories. Worse is knowing that your words are all there, strewn everywhere, in chats, Facebook flare-ups, and Twitter retorts. You just can’t piece them together. Algorithms know, but they won’t tell you.

Five years have passed, but I feel just as young. In my mind, I am just out of college getting into a job. I am an outsider among the professionals, the adults, and the ambitious. I look at them with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. I practice rage in minor mutinies. I wait for the revolution.

I have decided to write again, all in one place.