should there come a moment when beings from a future world rummage through the flotsam floating in what we call the cloud, i would hope that said being or beings would make an attempt, in whatever form of communication that has descended upwards in longing and intelligence, to understand the curious sadness of the self image and the intense degree of loss that accompanies those attempts at momentary definition.
unlike the claustrophobic euphoria of the photo booth, these images are perpetrated in moments when the eye becomes insatiable and the ego needs be fed and the horror/ecstasy of the moment needs airing and the simple fact of now becomes more than imagined: abhorrent, feared, repulsive, ecstatic, indelible, pleading for acceptance, afraid of the emotion that acceptance forebears.
there once was a more robust version of the dissipating man. there are many fewer selfies. it was more a time of extroversion — pointing at the imagined gallery and playing for applause with a physical presence — a slapstick hedonism and love for the sake of it. feeling the power of “look at me, in the world and all, like other real people who do great things,” sated, overwhelmed, disarmed, disillusioned.
the dissipating man eschews the self image, though a catalog of wanness exists in the cloud. ashen images, a pompeii of poses especially culled from all possible dregs. it says “look at me, half in the world and all, like other real people who once did great things.“