As is true for most Americans and likely most people in a late-stage capitalist society, during childhood I developed an unquenchable desire for more. This isn’t a characteristic explicitly taught, but one that is both partially innate and evident enough in others that it can be nurtured by companies for profit and imitated by children to acquire normality. Big is better than small, tall is better than short, new is better than old, more is better than less.
This view is so pervasive and rarely challenged primarily because our economy depends on it. As long as people want more, they will work more to earn more to buy more so that more can be produced and the wealthy can become wealthier and we can maintain our happy little status quo. For this reason, materialism is our religion. In those times that others might pray, we buy. In those times that others might seek enlightenment, we seek the nearest Starbucks. Things make us happy. Things define us. Things fill the gaping voids in our souls and in our lives.
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I’ve been intending to write this post for nearly an hour now. Why hadn’t I been able to start? Procrastination? No, it wasn’t procrastination. It was because of my irrational desire to be drenched in irrelevant, ineffective, incomplete, up-to-date information.
As I was sitting down at the computer I noticed my Twitter client had just updated. Someone retweeted an agreeable quote that I thought worthy of a retweet myself, others were having arguments that I rooted for and followed closely for ten minutes, but wouldn’t dare participate in. Such-and-such had just published a new blog post, so I headed over to their site and read that. While writing a comment, my phone vibrated and let out a little chime. Like some bizarre human variation of Pavlov’s dog, I reached for it, salivating at the prospect of whatever untold knowledge would be held within whatever message I’d just received.
And now… well, now I’m no closer to the life I want, no more intelligent than anyone else, no closer to finishing my projects and, to make matters worse, I have a disgustingly accurate and elaborate time line of the goings-on of the Gosselin house ingrained into my mind. Those are neurons I’ll likely never get back.
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