Sēcerne!

I usually scoff in disdain whenever a writer(post-moderns) makes a reference to a film when describing an emotion, but no other book nor any other part of any medium has replicated perfectly, the emotion I am about to describe, than Blade Runner 2049. This feeling that I am speaking of is that dread of alienation from reality, to be a stranger to human touch. The world today is riddled with irreality, this irreality that's supposed to substitute the real. Humans today indulge in the irreality of Netflix and social media, pictures and videos. But You and I, reader, we are seperated from that, we know when did this happen, but all these things are away from us, or we are away from them. We do not indulge in the collective irreality of the internet. Despite this, we do not say this from a position above them, yet we say it from below, as we are envious of their bliss, we might not want to be them, but you know deep down that you feel pain whenever you awake from sleep, longing for reality, for that ideal life, for what is more real than what you feel, inside you.

Fate, has cast you down into the deep, you, unlike the mass of rats, have spiraled into irreality itself, into oblivion, staring into it. We hate the unreal so much, because we know it the most. I've seen men like us, who have gone even deeper, see the abyss in their eyes, black sand and mist, unending. You say now that you will not fall to that path, but they too said the same before. So, we tread these dark coasts for so long, we've made women from these sands, and homes, but they wash away into the unending sea, in distraught we do the same yet the same happens, so even that ideal will fade into the scene, even so are our beloved, unreal and swept into time. Even so, you must be grateful, for many men like us sit at this very place with their eyes cut off, unable to see how dark this soft sand is, how it corrupts his heart and consumes his sense. Be grateful that we are the deaf and mute, unable to share his pain with others like us. Be grateful that Fate has not taken your arms, your tounge, your legs, your loins, your mind or your heart like it has done to many others.

We all are guilty of attaching ourselves to irreality, many of us seek the same irrealities as others, but we are not like that. We crave for something more. You want to have a place of your own, to say "this is mine" no matter how insignificant that irreality is, you made a house, a wife, things to do with her, memories with her, just to feel something real. yet sand is sand and sand sweeps away. So only water is left, chambers of reflection to look at yourself, how you are left, truly alone.

Being with irreality for so long takes its toll on you. When everything is swept away, so will your memory of them, and so will the memory of your remembrance. Nothing stays but that dread. When one is away from reality, he thinks of himself as unreal, that flesh you hold. For why is flesh more real than fabrics of code, strips of data? They all are swept too. So then will he think of himself as part of the sand, deep and dark, and so he is the sand, and is swept away into nothingness.