Lend me a patient ear, oh ye earthlings! A shift to ponder is upon us. The ever-glowing screens hath seized the hearts of men and women alike, and altered the old, and quite familiar medium through which our spirits intertwine. A not-so-subtle shift by powers of mortal doing.
Remember ye, the days of pages – stale. When thoughts, like ships, did sail through winds and gale. When our quills did scratch, and our inks did softly bleed. Upon the pages thereon, a lover's undying vow, a friend's greetings and fair wishes, penned with graceful thought.
To journey forth, traversing great distances. A treasure, slow to come. Each word, a gem to unravel. The wait itself, a sweet torment, fostering deep longing. To break the seal, a sacred delight. To read that which was written by candle's flickering light.
We feel the presence of the absent friend, whose touch the paper firmly holds. Each phrase considered and weighed with solemn thought. Haste was never captain of this ship. For we wrote not only from our minds, but we wrote also from our hearts.
But now, behold! A shift in the tide has come forth to wash away our ancient, sacred ways. Neither by courier's haste, nor by the pace of a rearing horse. But by lightning's speed, the messengers, swift in might, flash words morning, noon, and night.
A hundred voices scrambling to be heard. "Sup", "hey", "bruuh", an endless stream of chatter to deaf ears, rode. Lacking the depth and richness of old. A tale, perhaps, too quickly told. Where lies the pause – a moment to reflect, when instant response we've come to expect?
The art of waiting, the gentle sway of patience, like a distant memory, hath wandered too far away from us. We tap and swipe with fingers ever so ready, on screens that light up our faces, held up tirelessly by hands ever so steady. Where is the truth we sought to find, when hurried texts leave deeper thoughts behind?
The bond of friendship, once held sturdy as oak, now seems like unto a vine whose tendrils break with every missed reply. A passing shadow where roots should be. We gather in cliques, close and wide, yet each with screens held close beside. We share laughter, a silent jest, but do our spirits find peace in this digital embrace, when bone, flesh, blood, and touch, we deeply crave?
A once sacred solitude of man in the heart of his own affairs, now lost to the gaze of a thousand eyes. A stage upon which he must step, a distant audience for which he must perform. The fear of missing out, a growing dread. It calls us all to the feeds, compelling us to check what others do.
A lover's plea that once did effortlessly fill pages, the old art of courtship, now likened unto an undertaking of immense gravity. Alas, change is the only true constant. We give grace and hold space for this modern age. For the gap between our souls, it bridges. A voice for the mute, it has come to be.
Where on God's earth are we now? Are there no roads for us back to places long abandoned? Can we not craft arts of old with tools of new? Is it not possible to imagine the dismay of the recipient when they unravel our message, and it read just "hi"?
Let us thus, learn from what we've gained and lost. The price that it has cost. To cherish still, the deep and lasting bonds, beyond the screens, and perhaps, to the touch where the hand belongs.
Though the tools may change, and forms may shift, our need for solace and the gift of true communion never fades away, but holds steadfast and seeks substance at the close of the day.
— Valorian
Images : Gentube app
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