Nameless netizen makes nigh futile attempt to interrupt cycle of collective insanity
Words & images © Name withheld
October 2025. Suburbia. Somewhere in the west.
Person sits in room, world at fingertips.
Click. It pours. Humanity. Inhumanity.
Recoils. Head in hands. So much to say, yet rendered speechless.
Again.
Really, people? This is how you mean to continue?
Person pauses, catches self. Judging, lecturing, being superior.
Asks: who am I to question? I am not the exception. I don’t have the answers.
Merely exhausted disappointment, and a modicum of stubborn, hardwired hope.
Despite mounting evidence, vestigial faith.
Better angels.
Surely, we won’t keep hitting repeat.
A small respite, then…slap. Reality. Predictable patterns. Different clothes, same emperor.
Keyboard warrior contemplates delete. Close window. Mute cacophony. Unsubscribe.
Keep all but a few at a measured distance. Everyone else ringfenced. Made redundant.
Move to trash, wash hands, gently proceed with rest of life.
Skip.
In a world that yells there is little point whispering.
From the vantage of quiet it is easier to hear. See. Behold: echo/mirror.
Obvious to call it ugly. Stupid. Greedy. Arrogant. Cruel. Ad so infinitum.
Except, in the reflection, self. Copy/paste. Another child throwing toys.
Stark truth. Note to self. Flawed. Fragile. Needy. Afraid. Exhibit in zoo of apes conflicted.
Equally animal. Equally captive. Equally dead.
One of billions.
Now what? Two cents of vent. Loose change no one will stoop to pick up.
Insert token without expecting to win. Speak without need to score. Or be heard.
Take no side. Wear no badge. Evoke no god. Blame no other.
Plus, acknowledge hypocrisy. The world does not need another opinion.
Also, admit. Even such caveats are vanity. Smug non-participation pose.
Please, divorce the disclaimer. Just say it.
Okay people, your empires are puny. A smear of dust on a lump of rock. Over in a blink.
Your religions are fairy tales. Fantasies of validation. Sacred excuses for profane action.
Your flags are flapping rags. Your land is not holy, your people not chosen. You are not special.
As for your riches; too often stolen. Tinsel for a poverty you try to deny.
And what of this thing you call glory? Honour, status, fame? Mostly fiction. Momentary.
From such empty cups we have filled our mouths with poison.
Voila! Obese. Obscene. Gorging on our own vomit. The overpriced junk food of cheap conceit.
And still we pretend we are outside nature. That the planet is ours. The universe about us.
We lip sync the fake news of invented virtue. Our race, sex, ism. Or how much we earn.
We parrot tribal catechisms like lost children seeking the safety blanket of certainty.
We are our own pushers, addicted to the hallucinogenic confections we peddle.
Party till the morning after. See what the comedown has in store.
Maybe, with sore heads, feeling sick, we could start another war. Kill each other for scraps.
Or how about another game of tit-for-tat. A new race to the bottom. Our next lose-lose.
Why not call spite and vengeance self-defence. Rebrand theft and murder as justice. Merit.
Let’s use our smarts for dumb things. Keep buying the boom of inevitable bust.
Better still: live stream the suicide cult. Like, share. Follow the trumped-up preacher.
Go viral, blow up, keep scrolling. Next.
Stop. Person draws breath. No point labouring the point.
Could go on for hours. Another righteous monologue. Adding to the pile. Shit in sewer.
For the author has little heft. Nor access to all the data. Nor the ability to analyse it.
Their view remains partial. Path-dependent. There are blind spots. Biases.
They are not beyond reasonable doubt.
Eg: very sure small voice would make no difference. Change nothing. Opted to use it anyway.
The rest is up to you.
As If You Were Listening 