The world has become like this big old mansion you can walk or run through, opening doors into rooms without knowing what to find when you go in.
Having been banned from Twitter for seven days, I find myself looking at the news from a slightly different standpoint. The Twitter ban means I can look, but I can’t touch. I can read tweets, but I can’t like or comment or interact in any way other than to talk to myself. This ban pushed me just a little bit away from all news, and I’m starting to think maybe it’s all been for the best.
The world has become like this big old mansion you can walk or run through, opening doors into rooms without knowing what to find when you go in. Open this door and everyone is nicely dressed, sitting in a large lounge, talking discreetly amongst themselves, some smoking, some drinking, but everyone basically acting like decent human beings.
Then you open another door and the noise and stink hit you like you’ve walked into a warm, steamy cattle shed filled with maniacs tearing chunks out of each other and gobbling human flesh that is still body temperature, all while recording it on their phones, or live streaming it, pushing for that pot of gold at the end of the bullshit rainbow: influencer status.
You get the idea. Of course you do. You’re in the same mansion, you’ve opened the same doors and been welcomed and horrified the same way, sometimes on the same day.
Increasingly I am eschewing the mansion for the cramped but loving confines of our apartment, with its two adults, one little boy, two dogs, and a fish that somehow survives living in a clearly toxic tank. I sit down and look around, and I’m learning just before I turn 53 next month to love what I have.
I’m living it up in the apocalypse.