The medium is not the message
It never was. The true message is in the content, the substance of it all. That's something I have to keep reminding myself from my frog jumps between electric, paper and purely mental.
The importance of the medium is the opportunity for the expression of the message. How can you best express yourself? What affords you a comfortable environment for self expression. Isn't that really what we're all about these days? YouTube, Twitter, Facebook. Look at me!
It's too bad I'm blessed with neither a hot enough body nor a countenance pretty enough to merit a million hits on a YouTube channel where I chat about my day while looking hot for 15 minutes. It would be a great existence. I strangely genuinely believe ridiculously good looking people have great lives. I would love to get paid for my good looks.
Sadly, that is not my business. I scrape by with the many jack-of-all-trades skills I've picked up along the way. My words carefully selected from the books I manage to finish (which is really, not very many).
I'm very surprised when I hear wisdom from friends. It's fitting then, that that wisdom or care is rarely directed my way, but of a third party nature. Nevertheless, it does surprise. And surprise sets me to wonder my nature, and what effects my words have had, and why I say the things or neglect to say the things that I do. Speaking for me, really isn't a conscious decision. I am transported outside the television screen and stare back at myself and listen intently to what I have to say (subtitles are sometimes required).
Why do I not introspect so often any more? I'm not entirely sure, but I do know that the first thing I think about when asked that question is my conversation with Hannah oh so long ago. I remember being lost in thought for ages, being obnoxiously critical and unable to escape my thoughts. She told me to stop, and I did. I just never started again. 7 years later, I feel like it's time again. She's moved on with her life, I've changed immensely (all without any introspection whatsoever).
I don't believe I've lost the ability to do so, but rather something more insidiously has taken place. It's like that wall that was built in Inception. It's built so well, covered with vines, camouflaged with a veil of ignorance. There are times where the Wall is visible, but in my comfort, I hesitate to knock on it, let alone venture even within sight, afraid what constructs may topple if I do approach. Each brick a fragment of my ostensible stability. How can I question these things? The only way I actually have this stability now is to leave the brick in place. Maybe it's a shame I forgot the cement.
If it topples, I know not what I might find. Perhaps happiness, but when you're buried alive in the aftermath of a wall falling on you, it takes awhile to claw your way back to happiness.
I'll pick at this further.
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