I am unimpressed about your social media
undevoted to your followings, your postings, your likings.
I don’t care whether I’m doing it right,
whether I’m devoting the right amount of attention.
I don’t care if you bombard me with useless words,
all meant to spur more words by equally unattentive people.
I will not be discouraged by your lack of soul
which has all but been replaced by strategy
if you ask me.
Nobody will ask me where I’m going or where I came from.
Those days are over as are those of allure and sexiness.
It doesn’t matter though.
I write because I need to and not because I have to.
I am not trying to get paid,
I will not conform adhere refer to your strategies, advice,
reams and reams of digital paper,
just as wasted, just as sinful to waste
as real forest paper.
Words are precious and so are thoughts,
so are your thoughts and the thoughts of the millions and millions of internet users,
the redditors, the contributors, the bloggers, the opinionated halfwits, the opinionated snobs.
Like me. Me too.
Give me a wine farmer in any given wine-country
and I will gladly listen to him far far more than any of your middle class pretentious drivel on wine.
Sat in front of fresh bread and ham and a fresh glass of wine
made with the grapes I am looking at, working with, at 9 am after a few hours’ work.
I have been humble in the awareness of my deep ignorance.
I have restrained more than you know in expressing any idea because hey, I don’t have backup.
I don’t have the data.
I don’t have the knowledge I haven’t researched it I haven’t had enough authoritative anybodys tell me
If I did I don’t remember so I can’t repeat it to you and make it sound like something clever.
But you know what?
I don’t care.
Yes I only have my own experience.
Yes I only have a feeling that remains after the memory of something that has happened in my real life has gone.
There is too much being said out there and nowhere near enough meaning.
I read, I write, I am no better nor worse, but I am unimpressed about your lack of real.