The aseptic cemetery

The aseptic cemetery

Is there anybody who wants to be somebody? Is this the summum of egolatrism? What is the problem with being nobody? If nobody looks at you, can you be somebody? What if you have no likes? How body you are in a world of somebodies that finish all to be nobody who think they are somebody? Which is better: being nobody and know it, or being nobody and thinking you are somebody? Is the pathetical ego lower than the invisible ego? Are you trapped in a machine of your own willing, selling freedom for the illusion of being the pinnacle of the panopticon? Yeah, you live in a prison, but in the cell with a view. If you ever leave your cell, who will you be without your shackles? Is there a life outside the glass wall? Are there still humans not trapped in the system? You own nothing no more, only a thread keeping you alive. The day you cut Spotify, you have no more music in your pocket; the day you cut Netflix, you have no more movies; the day you cut Kindle Unlimited, you have no more books; the day you cut your credit card, you have no more money. The day you cut your e-chains, can you still be you? The day you don’t listen to the news, what is the world for you? And then, if you will say to somebody, ‘Hello! I’m George, what is your name?’ will he respond? Or will he run away like a frightened rabbit? Like hydroponic cultures took the taste from the tomatoes, the e-world took away the taste from the humans, beautiful and stylized outside, but bland and tasting like nothing inside. What is the difference between a plastic tomato and a Walmart one? What is the difference between an instagrammable human, called ‘profile,’ and another one? The same million photos for 1 buck in the same angle of the Colosseum? The same tired white sand with a palm tree beach in the Caribbean? I miss friends, not contacts; I miss my old sweater and its holes in the fabric; I miss the smelly grandma’s kitchen; I miss the old wrinkled hands of my grandfather; I miss the kids with uniforms stained with strawberry marmalade; I even miss the flies from the vegetable market. Who would have guessed that not being reachable 24/7 anywhere in the world was the space for real freedom? Who would have guessed that the tortured tomatoes from my grandma’s garden, but sweet inside, were the best tomatoes ever? Who would have guessed that the light-less nights, only under the light of the stars, were the most magical ones? Who would have guessed that we would end up in an aseptic cemetery, where we are not living anymore, but only guests at a party that never really takes off.