There was a time
when a seductive, blood-red
Facebook notification
would trigger in me
waves of dopamine
which flooded my bloodstream
like amiodarone, lidocaine
and a handful other
difficult-to-spell drugs
which i hope
you never learn to spell,
as they enter my papa
through an IV cannula
while he lies sedated
amidst beeping, blinking screens
and a flock of apathetic doctors
desensitized by
too much disease
too less equipment
and too often death.
For too long
I have been addicted
to that dopamine
while aching for interactions
meaningful enough
for a homosapien
to carry on
the futility, monotony
called modern life.
But now I ask
if that really is “enough”.
If, in my ten days of inactivity,
43 notifications
of a virtual book club’s activities,
of the memes I have been tagged in
made by sullen,
self loathing, suicidal teens
that are ironically intent
on making their viewers laugh,
of unreferenced, unverifiable anecdotes
no better than oldwives tales,
of pandemic-related quackery
both religious and secular,
of birthdays of people
I haven’t seen in years,
of friend requests by
people I don’t recognize,
really mean anything.
It’s silly how important
we think we are,
when we are nothing
more than
43 notifications.