Analog

I am shifting analog

handwriting postcards, crocheting on my couch,

embracing the back and forth of cutting, ironing, sewing, ironing again

until I hold something new, something physical, something real

in a reality far too plagued with things created by those who couldn't be bothered to make the thing themselves

I map out stories in notebooks with dollar store pens,

outline the edges of fascism, of ignorance, of ungodly low standards,

creating cautionary tales of the baffling loss of humanity

it can be called nothing else to shift the beauty of learning, of expression, of creating art to code,

to replace falling in love with psychosis, burying loneliness not in finding each other but in AI love affairs and LLM confidants

I'm not buying into a virtual reality, not outsourcing my own brain,

wasting water to waste the limited time we have to exist in this world by never bothering to think for myself

What a sad existence it must be to fall for the lie, to mimic a stolen, robotic cadence,

and call it art, claim it as your own.