There is something terribly depressing about typing “I” on the Internet, the personal, singular “I.”
Who am “I” proclaiming, announcing this “I” to?
I. I! AI! AI-EEEE!
“I” is a grand, pompous fanfare of an exhale from the lungs.
But typed, it’s this lonely stick. (Which in some ways makes it a better descriptor for an individual…unwavering, baritone “I”‘s can perfume someone with support and authority.) I. Say it in your head. Doesn’t it sound nasally? Desperate? It’s one mere character, but doesn’t its digital inclusion make the originator of a paragraph-long status message or post #112 on a 9-page forum thread seem like that much more of an irrational, irrelevently-personal, semi-deluded opinion?
Personally think the Internet is much better without the first person singular.
The world that never responds.
The universe that never breathes.
In its silence, we hear auditory hallucinations.
Whispers to grunts.
Grunts to screams.
Sometimes it takes a step back
A splash of cold water
Or a slap.
For us to realize that we are the ones
that give the universe its voice.
The Scream of a thousand cicadas in the nighttime
Is that god?
Or is that Me?
Avoid analysis paralysis. Sing outcome independence far and wide.
Exhausted, he finally rolled off her, flopping to her side.
He stared at the ceiling, panting slowly getting shallower, legs turning from warm rubber to concrete.
In any era, this would be called a stereotypical tryst.
“…Are you human?”
He sighed. Should’ve known. He frame felt a bit heavier, relative to her size. The way she kicked her legs and arched her back seemed the slightest bit ungainly, and for lack of a better word, programmed.
This wasn’t as magical as staring at the ceiling and panting with a human girl, as he had done before.
Still though, this wasn’t bad.