I'm sitting on the couch, my finger hovering over the Enter key. My face is bathed in the cool, blue glow of a thousand pixels, and the gentle hum of my laptop's processor is a quiet lullaby in the background. My machine is faster than a bullet train, and my internet is so quick that I downloaded the entire first season of Seinfeld in glorious 4K in just 1.3 seconds. With this technological marvel, I can do anything: write, draw, even have a deep, philosophical chat with an AI about the meaning of life, and it responds in under a second. It doesn't matter that the AI likely has the emotional depth of a toaster; the point is, we're having a conversation. Meanwhile, my real-life friends are texting me to meet for coffee, but I tell them I'm "swamped" and "recovering from a minor procedure." In reality, I'm just sitting here, a recluse on my couch, typing away to some imaginary character.
Suddenly, I hear it. Drip! A solitary drop. Drip! Another one. Drip! It's the sound of my bathroom wall weeping. Water is seeping through, a rogue drop at a time, from a faulty valve or a cracked drainpipe. I stare at the spreading damp spot, a growing map of my misfortune. I know the valve is the culprit, but who cares? I've got a super-fast laptop! I open it, a hero on a quest.
"How to find a good plumber in Zagreb?"
The internet spits out 182,300,000 results in a blistering 0.69 seconds. I call the first guy, then the second, then the third. All of them are booked solid, swamped with work. One asks if I'm "serious," because he won't be free for a month. Another asks, with a sigh, "What's the big emergency? Your wall hasn't fallen down yet, has it?" And he's right. The wall hasn't collapsed—but it's getting there. Finally, I find a guy who promises to show up in a week, but tells me I have to call the day before to confirm. Being the eternal optimist I am, I agree.
A week passes without a word. I call. No answer. I call again. Still nothing. I'm calling, and he's probably ecstatic he doesn't have to pick up. Eventually, a text message pops up: "Sorry, an emergency came up." An emergency? I've been waiting for a week! So now what? Nothing. I'm back on the couch, waiting for a new plumber, waging a lonely war against a growing tide of moisture, all while the processor hums its indifferent tune.
This whole thing reminds me of something else. Let's say I had a fast electric car. No more gas stations for me; I'd charge it right in my garage. Wonderful. But the moment it needs its first service, I'd have to take it in and wait in a line. In front of me would be some poor mechanic, probably a fresh-faced kid, struggling with my futuristic machine. He'd peer at the engine, bewildered, and ask me what the problem is. I'd just shrug and say, "I have no idea, it all looks the same to me." He'd just give me a tired look and say, "Yeah, well, I'm just like you, except I have to fix it, and you don't." And he'd be right. While he's wrestling with my car, I'd probably be on my laptop, watching YouTube videos on how to fix a car. The irony isn't lost on me.
All in all, we live in this incredibly advanced world. We have blazing-fast internet, lightning-quick cars, and laptops that could probably run a small country. And yet, we can't fix a simple valve or change a lightbulb. We can't even fix our own cars anymore because they've become too complex. We're slaves to technology, yet we're completely useless when it comes to the most basic, real-world problems. It makes me wonder: What was the point of striving for all this speed and connectivity if we can't even handle a little water seeping through a wall?
So here I am, still on the couch, still hitting Enter. My eyes are fixed on the screen, the processor humming softly in the background. My brain is filled with one single thought: I wish I could just walk away from all this. Throw my laptop and phone into a ravine and learn to live by my wits and my hands—the ones I'm using less and less every day. But how? And where would I go? And who would fix the valve on my wall then?
I guess I could just move to a cave or the woods and build a cabin. Living like a hermit seems pretty appealing. Then I wouldn't have to care about a little moisture. I could just grab my meager belongings and move to a new spot where it's not dripping. I'm envious of the apostles. When Jesus told them to go out and not take extra clothes, shoes, or food—just to go and heal the sick—he told them to shake the dust off their feet if they weren't welcomed. I've got a gift for messing things up, but I certainly didn't receive the gift of the Spirit to heal others. If I had, I'd probably know how to fix a valve. I can't even heal myself, let alone anyone else. I'm worn down by war. I'm so tired of everything. I'm just pouring into an empty bucket, writing this blog to some stranger, not even knowing if anyone will read it. I can ramble on, but I can't fix a valve. What's the point of all that war experience if I can't handle a leaky pipe? Did I fight for this?
What's the next thing you're planning on breaking? I'm just kidding. Sort of...
Comments
Post a Comment