What is, we often ask, real?
Is it the slightest thought that moves and shakes the ground or the tangible matter that lays still and fills the empty space? I roll myself out of bed, head to the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. Minutes pass.
What once was thought of as fiction is already coming for us. Perhaps ‘dystopian’ is code word for today’s conditions of existence which many bygone writers had anticipated. Moreso narrowly predicted. In fact, many crucial, devastating events are underreported, especially those that occur far from the very centre. The seemingly placid humdrum of our everyday life is an illusion.
We might have been contributing to the dystopic blueprint all along. And it only takes one mastermind to pick something up and implement what’s written. By the book.
Yet another unfinished chapter lingers in my dim-lit room Even before evening fell, I left half of the lights on so I could find my way through the accumulation of digital ticks, clutter of missing footage, and growing virtual dog ears.
As if they were meant to eavesdrop whenever I curse his plan.
Haven’t you heard?
The kettle whistles.