Cut

The power is off. Cut. Scissors to our cyber-umbilical cord.

It’s as if time has been poured into our hands, but we are not quite sure what to do with it. There is no internet to explore, no funny cat pictures to amuse us on screens or soap operas to delight us with their chaotic, unbelievable storylines. There are no gasps of delight by moments captured in time by snappers of our overpaid jesters. There are no pictures to be had of celebrities caught the nanosecond they step outdoors without makeup, or where a small piece of pixelated skin is deemed to be cellulite. And oh Lordy, let alone are we able to view those poor, wiry saps, where a pea consumed the night before, has shown them to now be harboring a baby bump.

What is to be done with this time, which suddenly seems much heavier a burden. It doesn’t feel as heavy as we fritter it away on Facebook, wondering why you’re reading that somebody is bored/itching/watching TV. Why on earth would you put up a picture where it looks like you’ve been constipated for a month? Where is the self-censor as the selfies populate our screens great and small. Those mouths, slightly agog, are not alluring, it’s as if the fish has missed the hook.

Perhaps I should move away from this screen, to see what can be done as the light fades. Time drifts by much more slowly with our attention not stolen by unexpected, electronic burglars of time.

The stealth of the banal, is lethal for a commodity which in our very own life-span realities is very limited.

 But when the switch is returned, I suspect this very precious thing will seep and creep away – sand on the wind, coins in a one-armed bandit.

Light! Cuppa and Corrie … what was I saying?