Somehow, the sound and fury of information sublime. Playing videogames, talking about videogames, seeing excited cosplayers and arts bound and leap about as if the world is warped aside from them, is somewhat sublime. The tired, burnt out, dogmatic need to for meditation, is also sublime. The New York Comic Convention has drawn to a close, and the sleep necessary to continue on into the next day is one of both relishing that short experience of allowance, of acceptance, but also a quiet furor of emotion. The raw feeling that is perpetrated from these constructions is somewhat ghastly, the expectation and wit and knowledge within exceptional to the rest of the world, perhaps even to taste.
But to sense on a certain level is to discover that one cannot wield the axiomatic sword and shield, to fan out one’s understanding of the world within a context of acceptance, to tightly guard the realm of misunderstanding, because of the value obtuseness to content brings forth. The beauty and the horror of our generation is our establishment of microcosms. That we accept, on some level, the shrinking of our world to those questions which we find acceptable, to those answers that we deem worthy, to the media that we consume earnestly, and to others whom we object without discretion. The realm of understanding today is one of precision, to the loss of discussion that may construct such focused thoughts.
So when playing games, when watching movies, when consuming food, we are part of a system that is perfect. So perfect, that seeing beyond the glass is a kaleidoscope to the mind’s eye. Confusing and perhaps beautiful, our sight is temporary, as we pull the toy away. What the world then reveals is a construction of our own desire, never more true, nor more truly stated, than when observing the mass convention. The merging of peoples for the purpose of merging minds, no longer simply a wind tunnel of thought, but an island upon which grasses grow as tall and as similarly as every other strand.
Carefully watered, we lack the nutrient that is essential. Change. The passage of time is never more frozen than in these microcosms of ideological pow-wows, where all those who care to think are accepting of what they lack in favor of what they want to receive. The messages echo beautifully, sonorously, not a gaggle of voices, but as ambient noise, ever more perfectly constructed. Praise be to the machine, and all the machinations shall be blessed. But here, there is no voice; only the endless consternation of sound.