The Digital Dictators In Our Hands

No—I don't mean dildos!

There is no turning back. I’ve committed to doing it—writing then orating the most meaningful speech of my life.

But as soon as I take a shit, instagram may as well be a line of coke cut and loaded on a mirrored tray. It blows through my focus, bandwidth zapped. I see horrors and traumas in real time that distract me from my own recent loss. More scrolling. Capitalism and cortisol comparison loops, TikTocking my time away.

Eventually I put my phone down long enough to wipe my ass. I look out the window and reminisce on my childhood, toes in the grass and mud, picking blackberries, and digging up worms to go fishing. I watch the neighborhood children go by, an older one pulling a younger one in a red wagon. The younger kid quietly rides along staring down at a tablet. Does he hear the birds? Does he smell the fresh cut grass? Does he notice the adorable golden retriever puppy floppily prancing the other way down the sidewalk?

My mind wonders about technology's impact on humanity. Empathy and social intelligence seem to be deteriorating amidst the guise of a digital revolution that promised the opposite. We’re connected more than ever, yet there’s a very real loneliness epidemic. It seems like those who need belonging most find it in online communities more than in real life. And of course in my work, I can’t help but notice the effects of technology on modern day dating along with the sexlessness of Gen-Z.

It all feels overwhelming, so I grab my phone and go back to scrolling for more superficial dopamine hits.

Suddenly, an Alan Watts quote floats by and ideas explode like fireworks.

"The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance."

I throw my poisoned apple phone on the couch and run barefoot to the front porch swing with a pen and paper.

'Finally!' I think to myself.

When I am finished I look up mesmerized, thankful that the Universe has shown mercy on me. A flood of relief washes over me and tears swell in my eyes. I see the most angelic white butterfly, just like the ones I use to playfully chase with my father.

"Thank you, Daddy," I say aloud.

He would often remind me that the chaos of the unknown eventually bears fruit. In the bulb there is a flower, in the seed an apple tree; there before me, the hidden promise of transformation from a simple cocoon.

And that’s how, in one quick sitting, I wrote the speech I gave at my father’s funeral the following morning.