The shrinking world in its silicon memory makes me forget. I am focused on liquid crystals waiting for the next headline, the clever argument or the next hello from a distant friend. How much imagination is lost when I become addicted to the update? The space around me is open but the painting within a photo is more important than the work of art itself. I must prove I was there or nobody will ever believe me. Is it to make the others jealous of what I have done or do I only want to be admired for my resourcefulness? I hate to lose time and progress but I waste so much rehashing quotes and passing on ideas that are not my own. I look around and I am not alone. Perfect faces are posted in an eternity of mirrors. It’s not real because the photo game has infinite lives. You can choose and erase the memory of an image humiliated. The greatness of life is remembered once it has passed, not fabricated from everyone’s perception of whom you should be and where you should go. So why do I feel so empty every time I go back to search for the words of a friend? It’s because I’m not really listening anymore. It’s because I’ve forgotten how to care.