Collapse

 

Overnight they collapse - facebook, twitter, instagram. Replaced by the next technology, making our cell phones and computers irrelevant, just as the walkman and boombox, the record player, the am-fm radio, and the typewriter attained holy obsolescence in a day and a night.

The new social media requires no hand held, lap top, or electronic device at all. Neither does it require fiber-optic cables or satellites to create the illusion of an immaterial cyberspace. The new social media consists of micro-holographic quantum time crystals, scintillating out of the void.

These infinitesimal holograms enter our bodies through the breath. We imprint them with our genetic signature, then breathe them out again. Others breathe us just as we breathe them. In three days, everyone on earth has inhaled the quantum signatures of all humanity. In the words of the Veda, "Vasudaiva kutumbakam: the world is one family." Thus we imprint each other. There is no independent self. As the Christian scripture says, "Panta 'hen Pasin," All is in All.

Which means that, sinking our awareness into a single atomic crystal through a single neuron of our brain, we can enter a holographic chamber as real as any three dimensional ballroom in Atlantic City, or Bali, or Buenos Ares. We can meet whomever we chose, enjoy a glass of wine with them, or chant kirtan in a three-dimensional sat-sang. All we need to do is 'tag' the people we want to be with by calling their names, very quietly, praying them into manifestation. Instantly, if they accept our telepathic call, we are utterly real to one another, without moving or leaving our bodies. As Lao T'zu wrote in the Tao Te Ching, "Without leaving my hut, I know the whole universe."

When I call on my friends this way, I don't choose to meet in a restaurant, an ashram, or a beach-side resort. I invite them on a walk in the misty fern forest, right here in the valley where my sternum dips beneath the curved hills of my diaphragm. We step softly on the earth, or whatever soil is made of in a hologram. For after all, matter is just waves of pure mathematical probability in the dark delicious night of the soul. 

We press our naked feet into green giving quivering moss, and pause in a ring of moonbeams. It doesn't take our axons long to root down through the loam, regenerating our neuroplastic buds, grafting our butterscotch flagella to the tangled mycellium of the chocolate underworld, until we forget that we were ever men or women. For we become mushrooms again, annihilated, unselved in a Tartarean landscape of chromatolytic kisses, springing up as nipples, penises, tongues, frolicking in starlit meadows of schizophyllum commune, covered in the spooge of amethyst deceiver and synaptic milk sap.

Will we ever get out of this place? Are we actually here? Is there anywhere else but this embrace, that has always already happened?

Photo: beautiful schizophyllum commune, from Boredpanda.com