The glowing screen was his campfire, and like the ancient hunters, he stared into its light, seeking stories, searching out meanings for the world that slept and moved outside and around.
He though was not moving. He was still, silent, and sitting closer to the light than he needed to. He sat closer than even was comfortable. A real fire would have blistered him, pushed him back a little, but the glowing screen pulled him. It kept him close, kept him connected, kept him crouched over the keyboard as though he watched over something valuable and secret, something that he feared losing if it slipped outside of his sight.
The ancient hunters had the crackling embers, the chirruping crickets, the wind beyond the walls of hut or tent. Even the cave dwellers of Plato’s tale had the voices of those passing to and fro in front of the firelight. But he had only the clicks and scrolls of his mouse and the gentle hum of an unseen fan that cooled circuits so that his fire would not burn out.
Sunrise or sleep would break the fire’s gaze for those ancient hunters too afraid to close their eyes, and even those in the cave sometimes broke their shackles and ventured out. This modern man, though, had no need of those things. He could stare into the glowing screen indefinitely. It stretched on forever, regardless of sun, moon, shackles, or passers-by. He had an artificial night that surrounded him, never-ending shadows of text and images that danced on the screen in front of him, and a glowing light that led him farther and farther away.
He though was not moving. He was still, silent, and sitting closer to the light than he needed to. He sat closer than even was comfortable. A real fire would have blistered him, pushed him back a little, but the glowing screen pulled him. It kept him close, kept him connected, kept him crouched over the keyboard as though he watched over something valuable and secret, something that he feared losing if it slipped outside of his sight.
The ancient hunters had the crackling embers, the chirruping crickets, the wind beyond the walls of hut or tent. Even the cave dwellers of Plato’s tale had the voices of those passing to and fro in front of the firelight. But he had only the clicks and scrolls of his mouse and the gentle hum of an unseen fan that cooled circuits so that his fire would not burn out.
Sunrise or sleep would break the fire’s gaze for those ancient hunters too afraid to close their eyes, and even those in the cave sometimes broke their shackles and ventured out. This modern man, though, had no need of those things. He could stare into the glowing screen indefinitely. It stretched on forever, regardless of sun, moon, shackles, or passers-by. He had an artificial night that surrounded him, never-ending shadows of text and images that danced on the screen in front of him, and a glowing light that led him farther and farther away.
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