I'm Analogue

I had a sudden pang of realisation… observing my room, as I sit at my rolled aluminium and tempered glass desk, pushing plastic buttons adorned with the semiotic nomenclature of communication. Those cast plastic nodules conveniently click back into position; encouraged by sitting atop little domed rubber membranes fighting the unequivocal ‘constant’ that is gravity… everything around me is made, is processed by man, nothing here exists in its natural state, myself excluded? But that, I cover with textile, I douse in chemicals; I am human yet...

Staring onto an abyss of electrons, soaking up the rays from my reflection I wonder; does this not blight the spirit? I know no other. How different would be birth into the Stone Age, knocking up flint with my axe, kindling, fire, bush-craft. Rabits need not hats. Delivered into the receptacle of dirt. An organic symbiosis. Does a farmer feel different? Working the earth with his hands… I am detached, I breath, I walk, I connect.

I think I shall buy some pot-plants.