Digits

I’m blinded by a bright screen and tormented by a splitting headache and sore thumbs. I crack my knuckles to stave off carpal, putting myself on the path to arthritis. The farther-off of two evils. The sound of pecking the keyboard seeps into my dreams, which are always half-awake. I’m waiting for the digital realm to go dark so I can go off the grid. I can’t escape the frustratingly – an email – incessant – a text – buzz – a notification – alerting me to what I’m missing out or falling behind on. My sweaty palms leave marks on the keyboard, a trail of tears. Everything is counted. The word count. The calorie count. The hour count. Life has been reduced to numbers – two of them. If they split the nuclear bomb, maybe it would be all ones and zeros. Maybe the remake of the movie “23” will be “10,” but the psychotic protagonist will actually be completely sane. That’s how we’ll know it’s the end. I think we should fear less about being implanted with computer chips, and more about becoming them. Even my fingers are digits.