In ages past, humanity did not have the luxury of tricking itself into thinking that things were all right, posting played-up lies on the internet that it believed. People had to listen with more senses than their ears. Their food, void of USDA expiration dates, told them if it was good to eat. Their friends fastly approaching the village told them with a facial expression if they were being chased by a bear or if they had found the clean drinking water they sought. Their eyes told them if the clouds spelled rain or a cool, overcast day. They were connected to fewer people and a smaller corner of the world but with greater depth.
Today we are less often called “members” of the society than we are called “consumers” of it. We are still homosapiens, created “in the image of God, according to God’s likeness,” but we have been remade into something else, a species that is primarily identified by its spending power and ability to absorb and suck-in. This, of course, is a false identity, but the facts remain true.
We are so programmed to believe that we are consumers of the earth, that we forget — this is not our original coding. It is a virus implanted into us by the powers and principalities of this age that want us to buy certain products. We are the products, really, and our time and energy are bought and sold, in the form of the data we trade for endless “free” products. We are never told flat out, “This is who you are,” but the sum of the parts of the world around us paint a picture that leads us to believe a lie. It tells us that reality only exists in endless consuming of media, of products marketed to us, and of people. We consume things, thinking it will make us whole, but our grasp is a bottomless hole into which we place the things we buy. And when we look into our hands, they are empty.
Is it any wonder then, that we also place things in all of our bodily orifices? Food porn, engineered to react with chemical dependencies in our brain, calls us to cram calories in our mouths. Emotional music and streaming songs, endlessly similar to each other but demanding our immediate attention, cling to the side of our heads in earphones designed to be barnacles to our brains. Items of flesh and silicon ask to enter or caress other orifices, hoping to simply stimulate nerve endings, wishing to be never-ending, telling our bodies that they are not alone. But loneliness is not about what enters the body or the eyes. It is about the heart and soul.