Did you ever wonder when an old thing finishes and new thing starts?
Who actually is responsible for a starting a fad, a cultural wave. We like to pin it on individuals who we can raise as hero's as icons for the fervor we feel.
What if the revolution has gone, what if it came and spun us in the night, leaving us at dawn rubbing our eyes, wonder what strange dreams we have.
What if we have no heros for this tender sweet future? Perhaps we have deconstructed to much, leaving no plan, no trust, no foundation for the rebuild.
Regardless, and hopeless the responsibility remains ours to inherit. Soon the camera will turn on us to devour our spoken words and our gilded smiles. It will transmit our folly to a billion hungry minds.
Perhaps we should hijack the camera now, dismiss the operator, automate the truth and broadcast robotic love. Do you have a message or do you eat your feet?
Still our future is electric, hardwired into the abstract ideas and expressions of the underground. That fabled and forever vanishing edge, where reason collides with the absolute necessity to express yourself.
The new things, the new heros, are here, resting among us, hidden in their foreign language, their unfamiliar song. You can't look for them, you will not discover them in some secret search of the widening web.
They will find you, they will draw you out into the open, they will open your voice and strengthen your mind.
There are no tricks, and you are never to old.
