The Veil of Filters
by George Pringle
Such a terrible curse, really, to be a romantic. In this age, it’s tragic.
How will you ever survive this winter and its blight? This space of people who are all discontents but truly believe to be happy. This age of ambivalence, self-reference, validity, vacuity, polyamory, post-irony, emojis…this age of pornography and never-ending, complex sadness.
This virtual company, this land of fantasy that is nothing but an orderly room with people who only speak to themselves. We are so cool we flow over the end, the end of our infinity pool. So cool we flow, like an interpretative dance- too fast, like dry-ice or vape trails, mocking from our corner of insubstantiality, the weight of a cigarette’s smoke.
So cool we’ve turned blue…the colour blue, when it’s a syrup that’s put in things that children drink. What was the flavour blue anyway?
It was raspberry.
And only raspberry could hide from behind the fiction of her own avatar. Prickly and tart, more sour than all the cherries or strawberries or other fruity dames and worst of all, she leaves a stain. A synthetic slick to lick your tongue and leave behind a strange remind of a vivid-semi-lived experience.
I used to smell flowers instead of photograph them.
I used to fall in love.
I used to smoke cigarettes.