I feel like writing tonight, like I should be writing . . . but no topic seems to bring enough thoughts to wend a tale . . .
There seem to be so many writers in the world today with so much to say . . . so many news stations and so much information; it makes me wonder if anyone is listening . . . if there’s anyone who cares.
Our world is so full of gotta ‘do-s’ so choosing what we do with our free moments matters and with instant information and constant stimulation, I wonder if anyone actually take time to really read words anymore?
Magazine stories have shrunk and are filled instead with advertisements. The Kardashians and football players get more print than stories on the economy . . . we pay entertainers far more than any other occupation. We follow them like royalty. More people know the names of movie stars children than who John Steinbeck or Edgar Allen Poe are.
Writing used to be filled with prose, with grand phrases and metaphors . . . now we all seem to want to say, ‘just get to the point’. Just give me the ending without all of the grandiose adjectives and flowery explanations.
Have we all grown wiser, or has constant stimulation made us all impatient?
With long commutes and two income families, we do all have fewer free hours in our days, or perhaps we just have too many distractions.
So what happens when the words stop? What happens if we stop reading them, and stop writing them? What if we stop describing the beauty in the world around us in great detail? What if we cease to explain love in brilliant terms?
Are we growing as a species? Is our world expanding? Or are we in fact shrinking? Perhaps the constant influx of words, ideas, images makes us immune to true sensitization. The more crime we see on TV, the less it seems to impact us. The more love is turned to only lust, the more desensitized we become.
Words should make us more, they should make us expand and think, and they should conjure emotions for if we are human our spirits should grow along with our intelligence . . . perhaps the more our world has grown, the more we have shrunk.
Where once we colored with a box of 64 crayons, now we have only 16 . . . where once our rainbows were brilliant hues, now they are only shadows . . . there are no azure blues or blazing reds, no emerald greens or sunshine yellows . . . our crayons are broken and we’ve forgotten how to color outside the lines.