8 November 2018

The Twitter Marching Band & the Weeping Wolf

by Andrew

I hate when I do it. I'll be on Twitter. I just feel the need to tweet. But I got nothing, not off-the-top anyway, which is how I usually do it, have a scroll-round, get inspired, & tweet.

And I've had nothing particular on my mind of late, either. My activity-level is low, I've been being a hermit, just letting my mind marinade, I suppose, re-cooperate, I can feel it, that it needs a rest, it almost physically hurts when I try to write. So I've been silent here too.

But Twitter is a different thing than this, these little blog posts—& these little blog posts are yet a different thing than bigger pieces. It's only 280 characters, tweets, you should be able to pop-off something, at least, anything. But I got nothing. And not much is inspiring me so easily anymore, either. Twitter is kind of quiet, in general, of late, silent, like an empty, dark cave. It's like it has to come from me now, or something, a voice, an echo, a scream. Which, that's fine. Except, it comes at a time when I've been almost completely tapped-out.

So I have to dig into the reservoir, something to tweet. Though I don't have to do anything at all, if I just leave Twitter alone. Which really, I've been. I hop on there for maybe a good half-hour, & then that's it. And then too, I been getting on there late, late at night, when there's really no activity, browsing round, clicking round freely.

But I feel I need to tweet something. And I dig in the reservoir. I pull out some mud, some old dirty clay. It stinks. And I throw it into the pail, some of my nastier tweets, I need to watch it.

Because then I feel bad. Like, why can't I just make some nice tweets? Why must I be so hostile? so cynical?

I feel like we've been passed-over, this lost generation, older millennials, un-credentialized most specifically. The credentialized millennials, the ones with university degrees & corporate positions, they're the ones going to run companies into the ground when they're handed the reins. Their lives have been too comfortable, they followed that easy, paved path laid for them, took the bait.

I look round Twitter at all these start-ups, all mostly crypto-related, & the faces are so young, the younger millennials, the older millennials are the credentialized, the VC's now. It all seems so silly to me. You're trying to tell me?

Like I am a wolf & they are puppies, raised by rottweilers, perhaps, but domesticated yet. They don't stand a chance. And the big dogs are passing down to the little dogs the keys to the castle, & the wolves have been left out in the cold, the coyotes. There's just no spot for me, no room in this game, my vision has been shattered completely, I see right through the veil, I've been scammed so many times, completely let down staying true to my expectations, I know exactly what's happening, these poor kids—it's already happening to my friends, happened to my parents. They'll waste years of their lives working for these crypto-companies. But so what? Well, then they graduate to be the new wave of VC's...& on & on. But have you lived? This little tunnel is all that you know, & it's so fragile, you can't plant a garden, you can't fry an egg, you can't milk a cow or fly a plane, it's all passed you right by, life, you've never left the state, never left the city, you have no experience with anything else.

It's the dog-breeders I'm going for—the ones at the top really calling the shots. Though I'm not. I can care less. But my vision, that's to whom I'm a threat, these baby-sitters.

And I'm kind of bitter, I don't even know why—kind of grateful, however. That way less qualified people—so then, compete!—are going to have so much more of a comfortable life, an easier time, safe inside with all kinds of nice stuff, families, if only I'd have just got in-step, it makes me kind of sad. But there's no going back. If I'd have just shut up & swallowed the plastic plate, there's nothing I can do now, it's back out into the wind I go, to continue the hunt alone, the weeping wolf.

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