The Algorithm Underworld

There is no need to fear the advent of the Metaverse Era, whose name is plastered on every magazine, and where each of us will be able to string together the most sublime experiences from a virtual reality headset, while being prostrate alone in a place turned sordid for, in comparison, it will have lost all interest.

The facts are there: this mind prison is already ours.
Trapped by social networks, we are detained by the algorithm.
It owns us.
We are possessed, invested, alienated,
Strangers to ourselves, held forever further from our inner being.

Let’s have the courage to read these few lines, not as a phrasing of our agreed alienation to modern communication tools. This is the angle of psychology magazines, as they present this phenomenon to us.
Nor should we read these line as reporting a physiological addiction to the crackling of the themes that these networks churn out before our electrified eyes, a neurological phenomenon that should be tamed.

Let’s have the courage to take a literal reading of what is at stake here: the spiritual prison.

Our soul, our Consciousness are held prisoners.
This confinement is our hell on Earth.
Throughout timelines and threads, we burn and yell in the blue flames thrown by our screens.
The pain is not immediate. As with any effective torture, the appeal of pleasure is initially present. Just one drink, one last cigarette, just once, just fifteen minutes of scrolling.

Here, before our eyes, hell is unfolding and each minute spent in these spheres weighs down on our hearts a little more.
The circles of metallic brambles around our beings rise up from the ground,
One row of barbed wire after another unrolls and our souls, as far as the eye can see, are surrounded.

Here, everything is an illusion.
We discuss among hungry minds, wandering in search of the next acid emotion to stick down our throat.

Who detains us ?
Who owns us like this ?
Look at them, the jailer architects.
Hear them laugh at our erratic reactions.

Like, comment, unsubscribe,
Plastic smile on a yellow coin,
Synthetic heats and cheap tears,
Flames, flames, flames,

Everyone, here, erects their little castle, brick after brick, until they proclaim themselves Lords of the Network Manor, Viscount of the Followers and claims their share of influence over the souls of others.

Influencer, corporal at attention, nibblers of the rancid bread crumbs falling from the feasting architects.
Lackey of hell, hear their slaughters foaming on your name.

Liberation comes through the realization that there has never been any other hold, in reality, than the one to which we have consented.
The kidnapping of our mind, body and soul was only made possible because we left the key at the entrance to the tavern.

From here, there is no possibility we can access it: there is no way to identify within ourselves the deep disarray that manifests itself and places us under the yoke of the innkeeper without returning to this key.
Get out, leave this place, now.

This key that opens the soul is the practice of silence.
This key is practice.

Here, you may say, we are talking about silence,
But silence is not made of words.
Get out.

©FJ September 2022
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