How are we to find the voice of a generation that is so helplessly lost?
Save your groans and banners for another Facebook event. Our protest is not the swan song of a cause outlived, but the ailing of humans inextricably woven into their discontent and utter dependence on destruction.We are the paraplegics of a world fed vanitous reflection, governed wantonly by the forces that provoke our upload and selfie and instaquote and Linked-fucking-In. Unable to shift a limb without comparing how the eyes of the others upon our screens might read our forced and scripted craft. We are the Yuccie (“Young Urban Creative”) generation, monetizing our fraternizing with graphic designing or freelance enterprising, collecting tax on snacks and subsidizing double-sided business cards with debt-laden shards of class shorn fine from op-shops full of stale pale middle-class effused.
We are trapped in a house of mirrors, but Plato didn’t leave no exit strategy for the cave we have so blindingly double-mortgaged our happiness within. Instead I’ll just put a house plant over there and Ikea has that chair, we’ll drink wine and watch Woody Allen and there’s no need to go anywhere. Plus maybe I look like Greta Garbo or Frida Kahlo and someone can take my picture and use that filter see, and then I’ll exist in the nostalgic mist that makes it all real and takes everything else away.. or so 112 likes would say.
We are the post-free-love generation preyed on by the Rainbow station, all aboard from quarter-life crisis through to heart-shaped hallucination until you’re given salvation and suddenly you are the Chosen One and why not let the blood rush in from downward-facing dog because you’re power living baby, don’t let anyone unmanifest your abundance.
Rapid breath ADHD or is it anxiety? Are your hands feeling tingly? Fed and bred in fight-or-fly your DNA’s probably fried. Gut clenched, full of stench and no gluten, no dairy no soy. Oh boy.
Where did we go so wrong? Were we ever in control?
We protest with the rest and add our names to endless lists that disappear with a click and hope it goes somewhere, because whilst our bodies are too afraid to rise we hope our buttons create tides, but who knows where it all resides. Not me.
My nails are chewed and gone and my words choke me in my sleep. I want to write for you world. I want to sing your song and pierce your skin until you can breathe again. But I can’t find any air in here. And it’s not that I’m depressed or that my life’s a mess and if it were it would all be perfect don’t you see because then I’d fit in and be the status quo to a tee.
Rather, it’s all so much harder, because I can see.
*Image: Shot with iPhone in Redfern, Sydney, NSW, June 2016.