The Malefic Monument

Note, this was one of my earlier compositions. It can be found on my good friend Tim’s website, Just Think.



I said a few years back in a paper for a certain English class, taught by a certain teacher—with whom I shared a mutual bond of disdain—that the text message is a monument to the insufficiency of human love. I said that in a time when I didn’t text people, hardly messaged anyone on Facebook, and was a staunch supporter of no contact other than face-to-face—or in a strangely unique space which John Green mentions in his novel The Fault in Our Stars that exists only in telephone calls.

However, I soon began to come to terms with the fact that being a conscientious objector of the main mode of communication for roughly 98 percent of my peers—the other two percent being predominantly pastoral—was completely ridiculous. If I ever hoped to maintain meaningful contact with those who were close to me, it would be necessary to succumb to the pressure of the electronic epistle. And so I did.

I realize now that I am a somewhat frequent texter, Facebook messenger, and so on, that my original supposition was entirely correct. The fact that I am only able to bend my eloquence to relay what I truly feel through a brief message based on binary is the definition of insufficient. What is the point of making a beautiful girl laugh if I cannot hear the musical tones of glee echoing from her lips? So much is lost in the hollow lol—the dry…no, dreadfully parched hahaha. No music is to be found here. No beauty emanates from these weak substitutes for human emotion. Nothing but a woefully decayed echo of that music escapes from the cracked, blistered lips of the screen before me. An echo who drives me madder every day, denying me what I most desire.

Emotion is in and of itself passion; it is the life-blood of conversation. The inflection of words with which we can trace seductive lines that move one to lust, or words of such deep and profound conviction that sway entire nations. I could write pages of poetry or prose to describe the beauty I see in Her. This means nothing if I cannot express these deeply permeating, penetrating follies to Her. Looking into the eyes I have so longed to see dance with the laughter echoed in these messages. Passing over the lips that bring forth a song that causes my soul to become ignited with such a flame of all-consuming desire that would rival the brightness of the most luminous star. Yet, here I am. So blessed with eloquence, but so cursed with a feeble tongue.

This is what we lose in the hideously bloated binary. This is the price that is paid for our newfound connectivity. This connectivity is severing of us from that which we need most, togetherness.