We also maintain a social role, and gain some sort of street cred by translating who we really are into an organized string of codes, parentheses, and groups, followers and people we follow, and what our posts are about. We form a desirable personality with people we're too busy to talk to, we're lazy to meet, and we're scared to touch. We are made more interesting through a profile and things are made more interesting through a feed: a net of endless information.
And we dance, sing, play, live, and breathe without actual or sensory experience. Space and time are eliminated and packaged. Suddenly, competition becomes more fun. Suddenly, everyone's an exhibitionist and a voyeur.
And we do all this because right now, this is who we are.There is no 'actual' anymore. Communication is radical and arbitrary. Lines are crossed. There really are no boundaries.
Yet here lies the paradox. In our desire for self-assertion, we forget the multitudes who do the same. The voice becomes a voice in the massive crowd. The voice becomes voiceless.
McKinsey claimed in 2009 that "Suddenly, sharing has become what we do." It is not the Cartesian "Cogito ergo sum". It is now "I share therefore I am."
But what changes? Why change? Why dissent? I'm fond of being voiceless in this illusory notion of attention being given. Nothing gained, nothing lost. So what if whatever I say isn't "heard" anymore, because of everyone sharing and listening, watching and waiting, criticizing and commenting?
But then you'd ask: Why blog about this when you talk of the futility of sharing? Why bother?
The answer is not 42 or grapes or oranges. It is simply, ladies and gentlemen, to do; to act. To share. As erroneous as it is, I am frenzied to share--whatever it is on my mind or on my heart--as long as I find my voice. In self-delusion or in self-satisfaction, one becomes content.
There is no answer to everything.
Kurt Vonnegut was right. Humans are creatures of explanation and of wanting to question.
And again, we are left with:
There is no answer to everything. (At least, not in this lifetime.)
There is no question. Explanation, explanation, explanation.