Facebook Fatigue

Now and then we fall under the spell of Facebook Fatigue. Or call it Facebook Fall out, Facebook Fed up, Facebook Fright. Or whatever FF suits you -- except for that word of four letters.

Even during a Facebook Fatigue, I remain logged in. I have too much at stake to totally abandon Facebook. What if someone sends an email? So I stay connected, following every post and reading every comment. But I keep quiet.

Totally unseen. Like a black cat in a pitch dark room. I don't even breath, nor comment, nor like. It is Facebook Fed up.

Facebook Fatigue is the end of Facebook Fetish. It is a natural burp of an immensely bloated infatuation... Excessive, near - 24X7 online engagement is clearly destined to end up in disaster. Even if Facebook were the best lover in the world, the time of reckoning should come for this fateful love affair. Then comes Facebook Fright, and all the fancied virtual love flees. 

Trouble is that Facebook is a free lunch. Believe it or not all free lunches are tasteless. Man does not appreciate what he has not paid for. Facebook friends are collected like stamps -- and they can be willfully discharged ('unfriended' as if there were any friendship) -- with just a click. Likes, comments and posts are exchanged without the slightest of emotional investment. There is no vulnerability in saying something. Posts are not spontaneous and natural. They are polished and artificial. All this lack of personal and emotional investment causes a certain dreariness that makes you run away after some time. Facebook Plague has started. 

And shame could also play a role behind Facebook Fatigue. We know that we are speaking too much. Mostly we know we are just talking to ourselves. But an unnamed craze of bravery exhilarates us and we go on with our monologue. Then we become nervous. Are all the Black Cats listening? Oh Gosh! Let's hope no one paid attention to all of that self-congratulating drudgery of words. What had happened to us?

Facebook Fatigue just exposed the fiction of a device we hoped had filled in the void in us. That gloomy void of loneliness and more. Like all other fancy technologies, we had come up with a solution that neatly plugs the openness of our void with mathematical precision. Without making any mess or splash. In the excitement of posting and commenting, the pain numbed, and we thought we are healed. And then --- Alas! -- Suddenly comes Facebook Fatigue - proving us totally wrong!! There is no denying that this medicine was like all the others before it. It has only the appearance of a medicine -- for otherwise, it does not work.

Facebook Ends with a Fatigue, but the search continues. With the failure of FB, the future belongs to other letters. It could even be XX.

Extracts

--------------- Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha ---------------

See, I'm no learned man, I have no special skill in speaking, I also have no special skill in thinking. All I'm able to do is to listen and to be godly, I have learned nothing else. If I was able to say and teach it, I might be a wise man, but as it is I am only a ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river. 

I have transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They travelled to seek money and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was obstructing their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them quickly across that obstacle. But for some among thousands, a few, four or five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard its voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to them, as it has become sacred to me." 

---------

Once, he said to her:  "You are like me, you are different from most
people.  You are Kamala, nothing else, and inside of you, there is a
peace and refuge, to which you can go at every hour of the day and be at home at yourself, as I can also do.  Few people have this, and yet all could have it." 

 "Not all people are smart," said Kamala. 

 "No," said Siddhartha, "that's not the reason why.  ...  Most people, Kamala, are like a falling leaf, which is blown and is turning around through the air, flutters, and tumbles to the ground.  But a few others are like stars which travel on a fixed path: no wind reaches them, they have within themselves their guide and path."

---------

S: "I am without possessions," said Siddhartha, "if this is what you mean. Surely, I am without possessions. But I am so voluntarily, and therefore I am not destitute."

K: "But what are you planning to live of, being without possessions?"

S: "I haven't thought of this yet, sir. For more than three years, I have been without possessions, and have never thought about of what I should live."

K: "So you've lived of the possessions of others."

S: "Presumable this is how it is. After all, a merchant also lives of

what other people own."

K: "Well said. But he wouldn't take anything from another person for

nothing; he would give his merchandise in return."

S: "So it seems to be indeed. Everyone takes, everyone gives, such is life."

K: "But if you don't mind me asking: being without possessions, what would you like to give?"

S: "Everyone gives what he has. The warrior gives strength, the merchant gives merchandise, the teacher teachings, the farmer rice, the fisher fish."

K: "Yes indeed. And what is it now what you've got to give? What is it that you've learned, what you're able to do?"

S: "I can think. I can wait. I can fast."

*****************************************************************

--------------- Albert Camus, The Plague --------------- 

                                                Tarrou's Story

"My father had an important post, he was prosecuting attorney; but to look at him, you'd never have guessed it; he appeared, and was, a kindly, good-natured man. My mother was a simple, rather shy woman, and I've always loved her greatly; but I'd rather not talk about her. My father was always very kind to me, and I even think he tried to understand me.... My father and I got on together excellently... 

"When I was seventeen my father asked me to come to hear him speak in court. There was a big case on at the assizes, and probably he thought I'd see him to his best advantage. Also I suspect he hoped I'd be duly impressed by the pomp and ceremony of the law and encouraged to take up his profession... What happened in a court had always seemed to me as natural, as much in the order of things, as a military parade on the Fourteenth of July or a school speech day. My notions on the subject were purely abstract, and I'd never given it serious thought.

"The only picture I carried away with me of that day's proceedings was a picture of the criminal. I have little doubt he was guilty, of what crime is no great matter. That little man of about thirty, with sparse, sandy hair, seemed so eager to confess everything, so genuinely horrified at what he'd done and what was going to be done with him, that after a few minutes I had eyes for nothing and nobody else. He looked like a yellow owl scared blind by too much light. His tie was slightly awry, he kept biting his nails, those of one hand only, his right.... I needn't go on, need I? You've understood, he was a living human being. 

"As for me, it came on me suddenly, in a flash of understanding; until then I'd thought of him only under his commonplace official designation, as 'the defendant.' And though I can't say I quite forgot my father, something seemed to grip my vitals at that moment and riveted all my attention on the little man in the dock. I hardly heard what was being said; I only knew that they were set on killing that living man, and an uprush of some elemental instinct, like a wave, had swept me to his side. And I did not really wake up until my father rose to address the court. 

"In his red gown he was another man, no longer genial or good-natured; his mouth spewed out long, turgid phrases like an endless stream of snakes. I realized he was clamoring for the prisoner's death, telling the jury that they owed it to society to find him guilty; he went so far as to demand that the man should have his head cut off. Not exactly in those words, I admit. 'He must pay the supreme penalty,' was the formula. But the difference, really, was slight, and the result the same. He had the head he asked for. Only of course it wasn't he who did the actual job. I, who saw the whole business through to its conclusion, felt a far closer, far more terrifying intimacy with that wretched man than my father can ever have felt."

---------

At this point Tarrou's handwriting began to fall off oddly... "She reminds me of my mother; what I loved most in Mother was her self-effacement, her 'dimness,' as they say, and it's she I've always wanted to get back to. It happened eight years ago; but I can't say she died. She only effaced herself a trifle more than usual, and when I looked round she was no longer there."

---------

Tarrou: "I know the world inside out, as you may see, that each of us has the plague within him; no one, no one on earth is free from it. And I know, too, that we must keep endless watch on ourselves lest in a careless moment we breathe in somebody's face and fasten the infection on him. What's natural is the microbe. All the rest, health, integrity, purity, if you like, is a product of the human will, of a vigilance that must never falter. The good man, the man who infects hardly anyone, is the man who has the fewest lapses of attention. And it needs tremendous will-power, a never ending tension of the mind, to avoid such lapses." 

   The Plague's Final Calamity --  The passing of Tarrou 

The night began with a struggle, and Rieux knew that this grim wrestling with the angel of plague was to last until dawn. In this struggle Tarrou's robust shoulders and chest were not his greatest assets; rather, the blood that had spurted under Rieux's needle and, in this blood, that something more vital than the soul, which no human skill can bring to light. The doctor's task could be only to watch his friend's struggle. As to what he was about to do, the stimulants to inject, the abscesses to stimulate? many months'
repeated failures had taught him to appreciate such expedients at their true value. Indeed, the only way in which he might help was to provide opportunities for the beneficence of chance, which too often stays dormant unless roused to action. Luck was an ally he could
not dispense with. For Rieux was confronted by an aspect of the plague that baffled him. Yet again it was doing all it could to confound the tactics used against it; it launched attacks in unexpected places and retreated from those where it seemed definitely lodged. Once more it was out to darken counsel.
----
At noon the fever reached its climax. A visceral cough racked the sick man's body and he now was spitting blood. The ganglia had ceased swelling, but they were still there, like lumps of iron embedded in the joints. Rieux decided that lancing them was impracticable. Now and then, in the intervals between bouts of fever and coughing fits,
Tarrou still gazed at his friends. But soon his eyes opened less and less often and the glow that shone out from the ravaged face in the brief moments of recognition grew steadily fainter. The storm, lashing his body into convulsive movement, lit it up with ever rarer flashes, and in the heart of the tempest he was slowly drifting, derelict. And now Rieux had before him only a masklike face, inert, from which the smile had gone forever. This human form, his friend's, lacerated by the spear-thrusts of the plague, consumed by
searing, superhuman fires, buffeted by all the raging winds of heaven, was foundering under his eyes in the dark flood of the pestilence, and he could do nothing to avert the wreck. He could only stand, unavailing, on the shore, empty-handed and sick at heart, unarmed and helpless yet again under the onset of calamity. And thus, when the end came, the tears that blinded Rieux's eyes were tears of impotence; and he did not see Tarrou roll over, face to the wall, and die with a short, hollow groan as if somewhere within him an essential chord had snapped. 

Welcome

Welcome 

To the land of serious folks

Where children are born 

Devoid of innocence

Where teenagers do business

And adults wear straight face.

Welcome

To the land of the half-dead

Where only the mad

Are free to cry out loud

Where only the pitied

Can enjoy the pleasure

Of crackling in hearty laughter.

Welcome 

To the land of the oppressed

Where business has replaced 
The aspirations of love

And cunning has taken over 

The hallowed throne of virtue.

Welcome 

To the land of the confused

Where the proverbial cart 

Has out raced the horse

Where men always hurry

To a yet-unknown place.

Welcome

To the land of lost souls

Where only money talks

While everyone else listens

Where friendship has been buried 

Deep in the belly of the heath

Never to be recovered

Until the world passes.