Poem: The Internet

 The internet is the web for a reason. It is a place to get caught up. It is a web of different information posted by different people. I wasn’t made to take all that information in—I mean, from the standpoint of trying to keep up with it all. This web, this world, created by our collective psyche. Yet, I notice my mind only stays locked in on certain areas of our collective mind. Rap and news about celebs and musicians, and looking up artists. And mainly, a lot of news. Or looking at stocks. I could be learning about the latest advancements in cancer research, but I’m not. I could be learning about how to build a home, but I would rather look at the home of someone I do not know—and then form thoughts, opinions, and feelings about it. It’s a dangerous web, the way I approach it anyway. I shouldn’t allow my obsessive nature to even come in contact with such an addictive experience.

The internet can be the epitome of surrealism. Videos of laughing cats, funny church videos, memes—any of those things all have this surrealist quality. Sometimes it feels like the thoughts shared on the internet are shared by me, or that they give me the words to say about certain things. And that may be happening. But really, it is continuing to distract me—or I allow it to. Life is about building a life and preparing for death. Being entertained by the internet is the last thing I need to be doing. But I find myself on the web in one form or another, connected through these devices. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I’m not really connected. I am, but I’m not. It’s not a real relationship between me and the posters online. No different than the relationship between a reader and an author. We may feel like we know the author as a reader, but we never do. We don’t know the author until we know the author. And that’s exactly how I feel.

There are so many differing reports on the internet. Different opinions, various facts. And I willingly expose myself to the confusion, then get mad at “the world.” It’s ridiculous. I need to be more responsible for what I am consuming and allowing to run through me—not only my stomach, but my eyes, my ears, my mind. Sometimes it’s hard to dictate because I’m so used to being impressed upon. I am easily influenced, and I internalize everything. I take everything to heart because I lacked boundaries growing up. I never learned boundaries growing up. I never drew the line saying what would be tolerated and what would not. Boundaries exist for a reason, and it’s not disrespectful when someone sets a boundary—even if the boundary is set against me.

But I’m getting into other thought territory, and that’s what happens when I write from a freestyle perspective.