The people in that box tell me how to live. And I listen. My hair obeys. My mind. My eyes. My clothing. I feel safe in this box. This box culture is a hammock of understanding. Why should I escape? This pixelated world of possibilities. Oh, the adventures I am able to partake in! The happy endings! The perfection of imperfect reasoning!
In this box I live and in this box I will stay. The human mind is its origin, after all. Is it really a box, then? Is it really a trap? Or is it a window to the muses of the human mind? Like books. Like paintings. Are they not all various forms of the common human expression? Of opinion? Oh, but who am I to have an opinion in this world? I am no more than a stereotype—a young, female colleges graduate who, according to mainstream American ideology, has not a clue of my identity. Yes, of course! I am still an “adolescent”. My ideas surely do not matter. And so, like many others, I will sit here and feed my hungry mind on this dissatisfying box. I will let it feed my emotions. Let it feed my hopes and dreams. Let it feed my emptiness only to increase it.
This is why I need God. No love story, movie romance, longing painting, desperate poem, or fairy tale can satisfy the deep, dripping desire I have to be loved. Love stories. Now THOSE are pop culture phenomena which have travelled through the years. You see them everywhere. Hear them. Watch them. Read them. Do you ever wonder why we’re always searching for love, or for something to satisfy our hurt? Drugs don’t heal you; neither does alcohol, food, books, movies, or love songs. If you think about it, I mean really think about it, the largest of humanity’s drives are to be loved and to be satisfied.
This is why I must resort to God. In my perspective, these drives are designed in us to lead us to Him. To someone far bigger, greater, and wiser than what the human mind can create. I try to be comforted with food. I try to be satisfied, emotionally, with chick flicks. Ironically they do not reciprocate fulfillment, but only multiply internal discontent.
And so, followers of popular culture, tell me: Are you satisfied?