third person phenom (a poem)

Friday, February 21, 2025

Third Person Phenomena

I’m buried.
Out of body,
phenomena—
an experience, separated.

Third person, watching it all happen.
It’s to me, not of me.
I’m spiraling—should’ve skipped that batch of acid.
Joker in the chemicals, all the best wishes.

Why are we whistling when the world’s burning?
We just watch from an armchair,
quarterback nation-states,
feeding on the filth we call news.

The tactile brings me back down—
the sensation, the sensory, the inputs, overload.
I don’t have autism, you do—
no, stop.
Don’t say it.

I look into the eyes of that loser,
that third person, as it were.
Seeing what’s coming—
not just watching.
Autopilot.
Waiting for respawn.
Blackout mode.

I wasn’t conditioned for this.
3PO and the programming,
what a pain in the ass.
But at least he had a soul.

Never stopped being shocked
by the horror of conflict,
the trauma, the shock and awe—
the carpet bombing of innocent civilians.

I didn’t blink.
You did.

I heard him say,
“Oh man, you’ll get over it.
It’ll be okay."

And sure enough, he sure did.
About a week later,
he didn’t even remember it.

I love how we have gamified extinction.