Too Much Information

Beth finds it hard to reconcile that she was ever that self absorbed. She knows she was, absolutely; it just manifested differently then. This young woman standing in front of Beth, shoulder to shoulder with her two girlfriends, none of whom make eye contact with each other, fascinates her. The trio speak too loudly, orating really for anyone within earshot. They simultaneously relay their exchange onto their smartphones, a running commentary of their emotional vital signs. They project confidence, an aloofness completely centred in themselves. The thought of their behaviour being seen as entitled or righteously indignant is beyond the scope of their imaginations. They were raised this way. They live out loud online. Every thought, every feeling and impulse, is documented and declared a monumental event. Life Changing. The banal becomes extraordinary simply by pressing enter. Preaching to their choir, a bombardment of Too Much Information. The young women eat, drink, sleep, cavort, implode and dissect themselves on social media, day in, day out. They are encouraged to do so, expected to. It is the accepted form of self-expression. Forget journaling or therapy. Meditation, self reflection. If there is no audience, no sense of immediate gratification or instant feedback why engage? Go online and get it out, all of it out. Beth bristles as the thought of sharing her inner most thoughts the entire world online. It's like the iron-on transfer t shirts she used to covet as a kid that displayed the ideology of the moment. In a month's time the fuzzy letters faded, peeled at the corners, wore thin. By year's end it was out of fashion, forgotten, discarded. This 20-something gaggle of well tended, adroitly accessorized, socially virulent young women create a living, mutating document of their entire existence for all to see. Repost, retweet, bookmark, like, favourite, comment, go viral . The creation of self from the outside in. The media has become the message. Beth no longer understands which comes first, one's self or the idea of one's self as manipulated and manufactured through filters then presented as a controlled specimen. Beth wrote letters by hand, spend hours on the phone dissecting thoughts and fears and hopes and fantasies. Made eye contact, held hands, showed up in person.Time slowed down, giving space to think before communicating in a form that allowed room for error, for consequence and rumination.  Now it's instantaneous explosions of grief or desire, proclamations of the highest stakes obliterated within hours with a new picture or quote or plea for attention. Be Here Now. Beth always was, still is; her existence proves that. The need to constantly reiterate it in a virtual reality seems like overkill.