The Dream

Despite all the awesomeness, what we do here on our rock is predictable. Our existence is driven by dependancy. Our Collective instinct still influenced by its predatory nature. By Drones who promise us change, but in reality only crave control. Luring us with their fertile pheromones. Chemical bait and reward that can cause them to shine.
Hey, we’re always attracted to things that shine, right?
Because all drones are sycophants in one way or another. Always looking up when they should be looking around. Hoping for the glint of fantasy in a fog of reality. Anything to get them out from under the shadow of their dreams.
We’re a species becalmed somewhere between what’s out there, and what we keep hidden in our heads. Well, that was how it used to be. Before the creation of the Dream.

Throw out the trash. Dump your emotional baggage. Set yourself free. Where once we looked up, now we gawk online. Fantasy is the new reality as we stare deeper into the Dream. Into a universe where the truth becomes whatever the fuck we want it to be. A virtual reality of non-reality has now become, our reality.
Enter the mundane mind and become extraordinary. A supernova in a virtual universe. In a place where going viral doesn’t require a vaccine. But hey, it’s nice to be Wanted in a virtual world of obsessive self-gratification. The desire to live, but not as a Drone. You want to surf that Web. Dive-in right up to your neck. Too late to discover you’ve been been caught in the NET with all the other little-fishies.
You’ve exchanged one shoal for another. Plugged yourself into a fantasy where you believe you can shine like a dolphin, or perhaps even as a shark. You’re swimming in a light that’s not natural. That slowly spotlights who, and what you are. As it promises something better. As it takes more than you have to give. In a universe where ‘They’ know more about you, than you do yourself.
“Come to the dark-side, we have Cookies.”
Click to open the jar. ‘Enter’ through a curtain of intrigue and subterfuge. A collation of corruption and carefree exploitation. The life of a Drone exposed with its wholehearted consent.
“Oh, where’s the harm?” I hear you ask.
Ask any addict the cost of their prescription to escape reality?
You’re no longer a part of the Collective, no, now you’re an illusion in the Dream.

There’s been a planetary soak by the Dream, and it has whet the appetite of billions. All keen to sip from a viral cocktail of awe and despair. The Dream has seeped into the Hive and eclipsed what’s real. There’s been a reality-shift to a place where drones can recreate their existence via a virtual umbilical. An interocular-line through the iris (perhaps the pathway to your soul), that’s feeding the outpatients. Giving tacit peeks into a universe that makes less sense than our own. A place where being ‘Liked’ is subsistent on who you ‘Follow’. Tweeting your heart out to those who don’t give a fuck. Where your security hangs by a password’s thread. And who, really, chats back from the other-side?
So What’s-Up, motherfucker? Get your Face-in-a-Book.
Because the Net traps you in a chorus, when what you want is to play the lead. Captured in a spotlight with a sociopathic glare. On a stage where all the dirt and filth from the real world has been digitised for a backdrop.
Tick-fucking-tock; realities on the clock, and they want everyone suckled. No-one gets left behind. Get with the programme, or get deleted.
“What the fuck?”

I am not a Robot.

Really, are you sure? As busy little bots scratch between the data and the Drone. They settle consensual and cosy between your secrets and lies. Agents of algorithms far too complex to comprehend, that will pick your life apart and partition the pieces. Then sell you on for cold hard cash.
We’ve grown up treading water in a storm drain as the monsoon passes overhead. Barely noticing the torrent’s flow, always back towards the Dream. A singularity of impassivity that looks, listens, and learns. Then turns what you are into what they want you to be, as the real-world becomes a wasteland for anyone who refuses to get plugged-in. Because the Dream is all around us; it flows within our parts. The drones are sending signals, massaged by the magic of misdirection and misinformation. You’re being managed on your monetary merit, by Cookies that don’t even come with chocolate chips.

The Dream may not be worth your loss of reality. Right now you are only half-asleep, but what happens in the future if you slip into a coma?
Well then, the bots can truly do their work. There’ll be no place left off-grid. No secret with anywhere to hide. No thought left unspoken that isn’t carried on a whisper. All been consented to for the sake of convenience.