If life subscribes to art, then the film genre preoccupied with zombies, vampires and the unholy may describe curious parallel universe of intuitive foreshadowing of the essence of the coming virtual reality.
There may come a time, it is said in the bible, when the living may envy the dead. Such a strange early pronouncement on the melancholy twilight of the ushering in of the last shadow-trace of the romantic notion living.
When extremes are reached here in the realm of this shadow of death, the world becoming real, the representative abnormality of it taken as normal, the spirit would interpret this as at once liberating, but confusing. Since limits have not been drawn on confusion, as far as it can alleviate pain, and bring on disharmony, the judges to be are awaiting with utmost patience any ruling on where if at all intercede.
Pain as pleasure was an artistic experiment in ancient regime France, an experiment squashed by its absurd beginnings, which absurd nomenclature defeated it by labeling.
Labeling has become a virtual nest of vipers, the shyness attributed by it's seemingly hyperbolic rationalization has become endemic, crazy has become a way of defense against obsessive intoxication for instance, they say, they would rather be crazy then drunk. Patsy Kline's crazy, a sweet passage into the yet undefined realms of total disaffection, remit it to the unrequited, the unfulfilled, the put upon.
Answer: obvious . To change nomenclature. To cover up the quantum thought of disintegration of all material: both physical and mental, by capping mass ignorance of the quantum world, by reinventing a way to overcompensate the de compensating effects of logarithmic change by sustaining the very basic existential tool: bundling extreme constrasts, by dehumanizing the Man into the non person, the irresponsible, neo jubilant adolescent, the voracious addicted consumer.
But there is no exit, to be true,and we can all become dreamers, and hangers on to our very own secret garden, but alas: that is the very negative of a shared horizon.
It is a sin to be alone on saturday night, if that is what is ever done. Self indulgence is almost a crime, and madness there suspiciously hides it's hideous seeds. Go downtown petula clark sings, but getting there not finding the old bars of a too quickly passing youth, don't find friend yours anymore, they have lost first the innocence, then the groove, and finally the identity worn down the glitter, of it's golden looking brass railings, and exposing it's base metallic, alchemical confusion.
The fear of death is shed, because the zombies have taken over the world, the users and the consumers have derelicted into an oasis of pleasure, ruptured in aimless but necessary orgiastic objectless repose.
The trees seem as narcotic as ever, the foliage still hiding the true priceless allure of a day in a golden shadowgreengrey park's hidden recesses, ancient with it's own terminal strangely, but the singular have disappeared in a vision of guilty pleasure mixed with headless pain.
Past remembrances are as withered as dry leaves blown about in an empty desert of a hearts no longer sheltered by the ageless brilliance of the azure sky.
If we can sustain this bridge over troubled waters of the abysmal void, by bundling it with the most extreme and exhaustively contrived hallucination of what society has become and is becoming, then, and only then maybe, in a vague sense rare as in 1 in a billion, yet common as the most abused surplus, can we avoid the looming catastrophe painted by harsh and bold strokes, spelled out almost like deathwish.