S I M P L E T H I N G S
BY Paul William Fassett
I was watching. Watching them. They look like people. Move like people. Talk like people. I guess that makes them people but regardless of the outer shell, they just don't seem right. Their heads buried into a shiny black device, poking at their tiny screens with their fingers like they are piloting the Starship Enterprise through an asteroid belt.
Were we meant to be like this?
I mean, can't you imagine a time when people did things? Big things... Like... I don't know... Built shit? We live in a time where we can fly to other states, even across the oceans to get to other countries, and someone had to make that thing. The plane. Someone invented that. I mean when you consider that someone invented a flying vehicle, it's like, well what have you done lately right?
Computer chip? Fuck you! Can it fly?
Ipad? Fuck you! Can I seat a hundred people on it and shuttle them like a heavenly chariot across the ocean to a land where they don't speak my language? Uhhh noooooo. Try again.
Cell phone? Again, fuck you! Sure you might be able to facebook your friends while you take a shit but you aren't taking a shit while thirty-thousand feet in the air now are you? Nope! I thought not.
I don't know. Just seems like people just don't do anything anymore. I mean, I know we discovered the human genome and all but seriously... Where is my personal teleporter? Seventies Sci-fi told me we would be flying in a hover car right now. What did we get instead? Angry Birds.
People have become such simple things.