I’m trying to dig a decent grave. You keep shoveling the dirt back in. Reckless emotions don’t take to shallow slumbers. This will require deeper burying.
We are a society that has impulse control issues; you are no exception. I think about the marshmallow test. Children are asked to wait to eat a marshmallow that is placed in front of them when an adult leaves the room. If they can wait they are told they will get two marshmallows. A few of the children wait, fidgeting with anticipation. Others are tentative at first; they want to wait, they want that second marshmallow, but convictions sway and after a minute they consume the little cloud of sugar. And then there are those who don’t even wait for the psychologist to leave the room. They can barely listen as they are told their choices, sweaty palms rubbing jeans, reaching for the prize. You will never wait for the something more. You want the now. I used to be that way. Now I could wait forever. And anyway, I am not a marshmallow. I’m not something to have.
Technology doesn’t help with these impulse control issues. How many times as of late I wanted to break my phone into a million little pieces and never hear it ring again, never read another text message in my life. We live in a world of immediates—immediate gratification, immediate replies, immediate validation. When do we have time to process our thoughts and feelings? We are rarely alone. Televisions act as characters in our lives, white noise drowning out any silence. Computers take the place of human interaction. Cell phones emanate their sickly heat, a convenient radiation, and make sure we are never alone but constantly separated at the same time. We have this technological buffer stifling vulnerability, human connections, and intimacy. In social networks we are fictitious projections of who we want to be, never who we really are; so many people talking talking talking with nothing to say.
I don’t know where I am going with this. I don’t know why I am writing this. I just don’t know. I suppose I am trying my damndest to move on, to allow myself the space to process how I feel and what I want. Stop treating me like a marshmallow and let’s bury the hatchet.
*painting by Eric Joyner