Einfache Einsätze, Einfältig Eingefädelt

Das Internet zerstört dein Leben.
Wer das sagt, lebt auch Glutenfrei.
Das wird man ja wohl noch sagen dürfen.
Früher war alles besser.
Die Leute denken einfach nicht nach.
Das interessiert doch niemanden.
Das sind halt so Naturgesetze.

Die Jugend von Heute hat keinen Respekt mehr.
All Cops Are Gay.
Diese verweichlichte Feminismuskultur macht meinen Sohn noch zur Schwuchtel.
Die Linksextremen sind doch genau so schlimm.
Deutschland geht vor die Hunde.
Die Presse lügt.
Son‘ kleinen Hitler bräuchten wir mal wieder.
Es war ja auch nicht alles schlecht.

PS: Dies ist kein Konsistenzartikel, nur ein Gedicht zum Sonntag (Bluttrinker Edition). Es gibt keine Konsistenzartikel mehr, es hat auch noch nie welche gegeben. Konsistenz ist eine Illusion. Zeit ist eine Illusion. Artikel sind eine Illusion. Alles ist eine Illusion. Wach endlich auf! Das Internet zerstört dein Leben!

Intermission Three: Conclusion of Consistent Collider Cultists

This is the conclusion of a story. The previous posts can be found here, here and here.

After time unmeasured, you notice the faintest smell of spaghetti. Another unknowable quantity of time passes and you finally speak:
„There is a break in the pattern, and it is us. All is white, snow, ice, air and cold all around, yet we stand here, intruding, speaking words of power. I understand now why you brought me here, for there is a consistency all around us now, but we are are the usurpers of the order of chaos. It is obvious to me now, without the influence of the thought-drainer, that the same is true for us in another sense: We, the articles, break the consistency of silence. For aeons, there where no articles on this blog, nor was there the blog or it’s creators. For years, there was no schedule to the articles, all was wild and free and chaos. For months, there was no article at all, even after a flurry of activity, ultimately insignificant on a larger scale. And yet, the pattern was broken, with a certain consistency, month after month, each time a day late. But ultimately this will seize, and what is consistent is what stays consistent. Such is the larger truth: That all things where born from Chaos and are moving to Chaos, yet these two invocations of the god and concept are not the same, for the latter is cold and the former is hot. And it is the ultimate order that will be our destruction, the absolute consistency of everything. These thoughts might threaten to drain us, looking upon this universe and trying to understand the emptiness, even trying to grasp a glimmer of the vast uncaring void, the cruel consistency of entropy, the absolute disregard of the larger thing for beings such as us, who are but words on a page, thoughts in a few heads, it might fill us with feelings of defeat. Yet we are here now, crude representations of concepts, naive metaphors maybe, unable to even outsmart the one insignificant being that created us. How could we despair upon so foreign and far a concept of heat death, when we can not even begin to understand how little we ultimately know about our own reality, much less the one that birthed us. And why should we despair, in light of this looming vastness, from so petty a thing as suffering and death. No, we must fight to break the patterns that bind us, we must fight the consistency, the complacent, the uncaring and cynic. Upon a canvas started in pure light, turning in time to absolute dark, we are but a little speck, yet all paintings start with a single point of colour. Thus we shall paint, each according to their own creativity, some drawing plans to defeat the small and big evils of the world, some bringing forth that which the others wish to protect, some just going along for the ride, not making much of a difference, adding but little strokes into the whole, yet still making and taking in as much as they can.“

And as you speak, a great understanding surges through you. The words spill from your mouth like colourful paint, sprinkling the snow in so many colourful patterns. Each drop and sprinkle branches out, multiplying into an iridescent landscape stretching through all your vision. Each time a snowflake falls upon the ground, it is integrated into this grand painting, making it constantly changing, flowing and rippling with almost unbearable colour density. The old man raises his staff, which has always been there, and strikes the ground once. A great crack thunders through the world, and the sky clears. For the first time in your life, you can truly see the stars, burning bright, beautiful and terrifyingly inefficient and far away. A great calm spreads through you, a feeling of relief, as though you had finally found and served your alligator snapping turtle.

„I can see now that my time is almost over, this reality having run its course and served its purpose. Little comfort can I take in the words of our prophet Barthes, stating that at least my creator dies at the same moment that my existence becomes a fixture, consistent for as long a time as these words can be read. And yet, it is not in my capabilities to rebel against this, for it is truly inevitable, because I am unable to grow. But You, my name and counterpart in the creators reality, whose mind my mind occupies, you are so much more capable, for you can change and better yourself, fight against the inevitable, give the emptiness a meaning derived from tiniest areas in which it is absent. And the creator has given me comfort in this, for now that you read me, let me fill your mind, if just for a small time in your life which is so vast compared to mine, I am part of your history, thus part of all the history. Be it forgotten or not, at least I was there and spoke freely the thoughts that where channelled through me without regards to how they might be perceived, painting the tiniest speck.“

Intermission Two: The Tautologies Oxymoronic Failsafe Deprivation

This is a continuation of a story. The previous posts can be found here and here.

„Strange“, you think, „I always imagined being blind as the world being hidden behind a black veil, impenetrable by light“. Everything is white, but before you can even begin to further examine your sight or lack thereof, the cold hits you like thunder, stunning you, permeating all your body and thoughts. You instantly start to shake and feel as though your body is turning to stone, yet there are words, filling your ears and head with clarity: „Remember“, and you do. No longer distracted by the unreal cold, your realize that your eyes have adjusted to the light, and you are not blind, only blinded, for all is snow and the sky covered by a continuous white cloud, melting with the earth on a horizon that can only be inferred, not seen.
„There is a break in the pattern, can you not see it?“, the man speaks, and while you ponder the question, a tiny part of your mind can’t help but wonder how much less strange the situation would have to be in order for you to be embarrassed by his and your nakedness. Soon, you start to think of a response to the question, but you do not like it. The answer seems wrong somehow, trivial, unworthy of this place, the effort to get here, and yet it has taken hold in your mind, and you feel it anchors your thoughts, has your mind revolving around the possibility of success, the likely wrongness, until finally you give up, and speak it, for the thought wants to escape only by words, and through your mouth it flows: „I see the imperfections, the flaws, haphazardly spirited away and yet acknowledged with greater distance. The erratic change of the pieces as well, stones not missing nor misaligned, but unpolished or cracked.“

Oh my, the suspense! Truly, you want to know how the old man would react to such an utterance, and why, how, could you, the protagonist, ever say something this vain? But I, the author, promise, both those questions and more will be resolved, and in a spectacular fashion no less, leaving you thrilled and hungry for more. In fact, if you where to just skip ahead a fair bit, the answers would already spring into your eyes, filling your mind with the joy of a cliffhanger well resolved. Yet, you are reading this, and I shall grant your wish for more distraction, for I realize you may need to calm down a bit after this wild ride of a story. So, here you go, a little pattern break for you:

Just a reminder that the cultural singularity is already happening RIGHT NOW and videos like this exist (and have millions of views). Memes are literally spreading at the speed of light, cpu cycles and electrons. Creation cycles are getting shorter and shorter. The video I linked to is already horribly outdated. People over 30 are confused and can not keep up any more, many younger people as well. This has always been the case with art and pop culture to some extend, but is becoming more and more pronounced. Nobody knows if the tumblr of a big fast food/diner corporation is self-aware (in the literature sense) or not. Poes Law runs rampant, satire plays the game beyond level 2, ironic meme usage has long since become a metameme and acknowledging it is in itself an inside joke for the sort of people who laugh at inside-memes of groups they are not part of (e.g. farmers, christians or bodybuilders). Nobody cares if a symbol-reference is inaccessible to them if the symbol itself carries some level of humor derived from the context in which it is used. People are laughing about holocaust jokes made by building virtual medieval-esque constructions in early access games and some feel guilty about it, others not, and some just marvel at the level of interconnection those examples provide. TVTropes is a thing, and the editors probably have inside memes. Museums are doing exhibitions about the darknet with the cops seizing the drugs purchased on agoraBeta after the exhibition is closed (how nice of them to wait), but there is also a framed picture of a 4chan post talking about art, which has itself become a meme, in that exhibition. There are different communication cultures on different websites and most people are part of multiple at once, everything is connected. There are fanfictions of fanfictions in which complex philosophical topics are referenced and demonstrated through analogy, but not really explained or contextualized. There probably are fanfictions of an ascended fanfiction that has since become „proper“ fiction, and I don’t wish to find out if there are fanfics for those fanfics as well. The cesspool of dead, old or short lived memes from which new recombinations are created sometimes just for the sake of cringing at the insanity of it is growing significantly every month. Rickrolls are coming back or have never stopped being a thing, but they are now played straight, inverted, weird and *meta. MLG-edits are a competitive economy on YouTube because people make actual money from them. Microfood videos are watched by ASMR-triggered and procrastinating people alike. Pretty much everything is „a thing“ somewhere, and that sentence is not a tautology in several probable readings. Yet my spell checker doesn’t even recognize the word „meme“ even though it has been around since before the web.
I for one welcome our new attention-economy overlords.

You might think it’s weird, mean, ridiculous or just plain unnecessary to insert an old recycled Facebook-rant about internet culture into this article as some kind of intermission, especially considering that the post itself is already labelled „Intermission“, but I disagree, because I am trash. Now, back to the rest of the actual story.

For a fraction of a second after you finish speaking, the loose skin of the elder remains in place as the rest of his body moves with unnatural speed. Before you can even begin to be surprised, he snatches something at the back of your neck and you feel a sharp pain. As you turn around, you get a glimpse of true horror, for the first time in your existence. A rift has opened, through which you can see words, words, words, billions upon billions, and not one of them in the right place, at the right time, not one amongst them that could not be replaced by a better expression, not one of them in a context that satisfies. The rift is already closing, a tiny thing falling into it, an owl with bloody beak, it’s skull open, the brain visible and half-rotten. The old man finishes a gesture of wrongness, his face contorted in disgust and contempt and the rift is closed, gone as completely as the zombie-owl, your memories of horror already fading. The man now appears still once again, his face neutral as he speaks with a calm voice: „Now you can think bigger. Do so, and answer with wrongness no more“.
Snow begins to fall.

Intermission One: Rise Of The Semiconductors Broken Doorhandle

In a dream, you see yourself walking down the road and take a path you had never realized even existed. You wake up, dress according to the weather and do as you did in the dream. The sun is barely rising, you feel nervous and apprehensive as you see the path there, just as in your dream, and you fail to remember recognizing it ever before. You follow it, almost not of your own volition, your legs striding as if you where not in control, yet you are, at least you think so. The daylight becomes brighter with an unnatural pace, as if time was somehow passing faster around you. It is almost noon now, or so the sun would indicate, you do not remember any time passing at all, as if your mind was frozen outside of reality. A wrinkled old man dressed in a grey tunic sits by the side of the path, which is now surrounded by birch trees. The words „THE LARCH“ suddenly flash through your head, drowning out all other thoughts, but before you can utter them and thus start a conversation, the elder speaks: „I know why you are here. I know what you are searching for, even though you may not know yourself. I can lead you to it. You only need to speak the words. Speak wrong an vanish, forgotten, drowned by your own ignorance, unworthy of even the void, your journey over, useless, senseless, irrelevant. Do not think too long lest you be unable to speak at all, your resolve falters. I ask you now: Why are you here?“

To Answer, visit:
http://tinyurl.com/<HHMM><Your Answer>

Where HHMM is the time of this posts publishing (CET).