A sign(?)

I can no longer conceive of anything new.

Not, at least, without visual aids like smart home expos, peopled with cheery youths enthusiastically explaining to the crowd just why someone would want the Internet on their fridge, or to be able to turn on the lights and oven and heater from their office.

Or glossy-paged catalogues with saucer-eyes-inducing pictures upon pictures, accompanied with raving reviews I can barely understand, and prices which look like typos of the sort where someone leaned a little too heavily on the ‘0’ key.

Music, literature, and art have solidly planted themselves in the modern world, leaving me feeling increasingly lost amongst stranger-friends.

But even, then, these are of things either already been or to come, shortly. The real “new” that eludes me is the kind that now eludes my parents, or theirs, or theirs, or theirs.

I cannot imagine that that will be to computers, what computers are now to abacuses. Planes to kites, F1 cars to horse-drawn carriages, Eminem to the Beatles, Chopin, Strauss, and Bach, miniskirts to hoops and the pantalets beneath, blended goldfish to the Mona Lisa.

This is one of the most compelling reasons for my desire to remain immortal, or, failing which, to assume an unsubstantial form on (physical) death, just to see how different things can get.

Although I can see myself, 50 years from now, being as lost in a world moved on without me as undoubtedly my parents’ parents are now, and being laughed at by thoughtless youths (or whatever word they will be known as) is possibly not the best way to spend all of eternity and therefore possibly the second option is perhaps preferable, albeit far less interactive.

No, I really cannot conceive of anything very new at all.

Must be getting old, eh?