Extracting yourself from apparent reality defines this sense of self.
A layer of hue on a greyscale eye, a dancing shadow on 2.2.
Digital corruption slaughtered our minds,
A hollow slave army of pixelated personas, forgetting the sincerity of touch.
We are but clones, stripped of identity.
Intimidated by those who free their vanity from harness,
Who prey on the weak for self worth.
Those who rebel be hung drawn and quartered by the modern age,
Yet their true hearts will still beat through the media massacre.
To not live a facade and exaggeration, to not eclipse through filter, to live for truth over a crafted illumination of profile online.
Laugh in person; hold a friend in need.
Make a stranger’s day; relinquish the shackles of others opinion.
And when I shall die, I’ll die knowing I lived in the world.
When you die, will you remember your mother’s smile- or faux likes on your brunch one Tuesday?
Will your heart be layered in notifications of those you never knew,
Or moments in our glorious world with people who looked you in the eye,
People that mattered,
People that cared,
People you learnt from,
People who made you smile,
People who may have entered your life for only a moment:
But changed it for the better.
Life has no filter; true life has no airbrush, no colour palette nor square eye.
Embrace raw. Natural. True and authentic.
Life is love undissolved by data.
Fresh air, integrity, laughter, heart.