Writing Prompt

Author: Jorge Luis Borges

In the infinite library that was the internet, every book ever written was accessible, alongside every book that could be written, and indeed, every possible permutation of letters in every language that had ever existed. The Internet, in all its unfathomable vastness, seemed at first glance to be an infinite wellspring of knowledge and wisdom, a gift from the gods of technology to mankind. And yet, like the fabled Library of Babel, it was also a prison, filled with deception, meaninglessness, and a cacophony of voices.

It was a warm evening in Buenos Aires when Daniel Cardenas first discovered the intricacies of this new labyrinth. Daniel was a professor of literature, fascinated by the classics yet intrigued by the modern forms of expression that technology had birthed. His students spoke of a new forum—a virtual garden of delights, a digital sanctuary where every thought could find its echo, every word could become immortal. They called it "Social Media."

Daniel had long been wary of these platforms, which seemed to him to dilute the depth of human experience into transient pixels. But curiosity, that most human of traits, drove him to explore. He created an account under a pseudonym—"Orion"—and began to navigate this endless network of connections and contradictions.

What Daniel found was a maze of mirrors. Each profile was a carefully constructed version of a self, each post a chosen reflection, each comment an echo bouncing through the corridors of the infinite. There were threads of wisdom, to be sure, but they were entangled in a vast web of half-truths, misinformation, and outright lies. There were celebrations of humanity, moments of profound empathy and solidarity, but these were often overshadowed by waves of rage, envy, and despair.

Daniel, or rather, Orion, quickly gained followers. His thoughts on literature and the human condition resonated with many, and he found himself strangely intoxicated by the attention, the validation. For the first time in his life, he felt seen not just by his students or the readers of his modest publications, but by thousands across the globe. He realized that this new world was a stage on which anyone could play, an agora where every voice could shout into the void and be heard.

Yet, the more Orion wrote, the more he felt a sense of disquiet. He noticed that the posts which garnered the most engagement were not his thoughtful reflections on Borges, Cervantes, or Woolf, but rather his more impulsive, reactionary comments—those typed in moments of anger or frustration. He observed a pattern: the more visceral and provocative his words, the wider their reach. This platform, he realized, did not value contemplation or nuance but thrived on conflict, on the raw, the immediate.

One day, in a moment of irritation, Daniel typed a scathing critique of a trending book—an author he had never read but whose popularity seemed, to him, emblematic of a culture increasingly satisfied with the banal. The post went viral. Thousands of responses flooded in, some in vehement agreement, others in outrage. His account gained followers by the hour. He was elated and horrified, as if he had discovered a terrible secret: that controversy, not truth, was the currency of this new realm.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and Orion found himself slipping further into this shadow world. His physical life—the classes he taught, the books he read—became pale reflections of his online existence. He was addicted to the rush of notifications, the endless stream of interaction that filled his days and haunted his nights.

One evening, after an especially heated exchange with another user—an account with a name as cryptic and mythological as his own—Daniel sat back and stared at the screen. He realized he had become a ghost, a phantom wandering through the endless labyrinth of data. He was no longer Daniel Cardenas, the professor who cherished quiet mornings with a cup of coffee and a good book. He was Orion, a figure conjured from digital ether, defined not by what he loved or believed but by how he reacted to the provocations of others.

He thought of Borges's infinite library, a universe composed of books, every possible combination of words stretching into infinity. The Internet was its modern counterpart, a labyrinth not of pages but of screens, not of words written in quiet study but of words hurled into the void, seeking resonance in the minds of unseen readers. And just as Borges's library contained all wisdom and all madness, so too did this digital labyrinth contain the highest and lowest of human thought.

Daniel logged off. He closed his laptop and stared at the blank screen, his reflection faint and ghostly. He wondered how many other Orions were out there, lost in the maze, forgetting the simplicity of real human connection, the quiet of a genuine thought, the touch of a paper page.

He resolved to return to his books, to his students, to the tangible world of ink and paper, where thoughts could be nurtured in silence, where wisdom did not scream for attention but whispered softly, waiting to be discovered by those who cared to listen. The digital labyrinth would continue, a vast and ever-expanding library of voices. But Daniel would seek another path, a quieter, more deliberate journey through the infinite garden of thought.

The boy hastened to his father, sobbing with the sorrow of a thousand mourning doves. “Father, thy boys down thou street hast injured me once again!” He was talking of thy group of six living at number 12 on their street.

“Ah! Thee was bullied by thoust ugly cretains whose toungues outvenom all the nile, eh? Do not stand there like a coward, my son! Get them back!” Boomed thy father.

Thy boy nodded sorrowfully and turned back to thy boys who hast so hurt him.

To be You see Insta what Social stuff Not to be With glee Tick what Stupid junk What is That’s his The question The suggestion

(A Golden Shovel poem that borrows from “Dreams” by Langston Hughes)

(If you are unsure how to read a Golden Shovel- read the last word of each line)

On bitter nights I try to hold Myself away from falling fast Asleep that I may not go to That frightful realm I call my dreams

I detest each visit there, for I cannot trust in what or when Forgetting they are only dreams I fight to leave, but cannot go

They paint a dreadful, tortured life That’s only sweet deliverance is A lucid shadow that casts a Pall on visions dark and barren

Abandoned, hopeless in this field Dreams that leave your senses frozen Only pray the terrors go with Wakening like sun-melted snow

“To be or not to be?” A question many a man ask earnestly To live a life of misery Or lay thy’s head to early sleep

“To be or not to be?” Thou dare ask a question unholy In a world dashed with madness and folly Life is but a cursed melee

“To be or not be?” Life is but a fickle dream In death, but a memory To brethren, dichotomy

“To be or not to be?” Many ask and many seek Thee watch and count as many see Not to be and end a dream

——————————————————

Um, I feel like if you write a poem/story well you shouldn’t have to explain it but I had no idea what I was doing here so I’m just gonna explain it anyways.

The modern-day issue here is supposed to be the increasing suicide rate (hopefully that was clear) and which is why I used the line “To be or not to be?” (I stole it from Shakespeare himself in case you didn’t know).

I haven’t read a lot of Shakespeare’s work but I did try to read “Macbeth” and “The Merchant of Venice” though I didn’t understand 85% of what they were saying. I can understand 75% of what I wrote so clearly I’m doing something wrong.

Say, how are you? How are you I say? Have you heard of the town named Tooberaday?

It’s a place not too far You can get there real quick Although you might find yourself getting quite sick

In Tooberaday you see They don’t leave their homes That’s because every one Has its very own Tooberphone

The Tooberphone is a device that can do it all You can watch TV, surf the web, even make a call It cleans, it cooks, it reads you books It even will find you the best place for shnooks

So with all this convenience in their very own homes There simply is no reason to go out alone Especially when the world can be such a scary place Who wants to get eaten by a wild Whoobaface?

But this does make the town of Tooberaday sad There are no parades, no parties It’s really quite bad The people are lonely. They don’t have real friends They talk online through their Tooberphones But real connection? Depends

One day little Charlie Who wanted to play ball And really was just sick of it all Threw his Tooberphone out the window It caused quite the scene His parents cried “But Charlie what does it all mean??”

But not to worry Because within the hour A brand new Tooberphone was delivered Sleek, shiny, and powered

“Go on now Charlie,” his parents said “Go play some ball online with Ted” “Make a video or watch a movie in 3D” “You may not have noticed but this is the latest version, the Z”

So that is what life is like in Tooberaday Don’t you think it would be better to just stay away? Although their phones seem so convenient and fun There is just so, so much more in life to be done

Maumo prepared to see her friend, she came online. They planned to meet at the same place, and the same time.

Then by the stone archway, his avatar appeared. He was The Beun, a game veteran many feared. He only wore base-game cosmetics. Why? None knew. His cape and tunic were blue, light blue, and dark blue.

“You’re here!” Maumo cheered, her voice in the mic was bright. “How was school today?” The Beun asked, knelt to her height. Maumo said, “I tripped during recess, and my skin—“ “Let’s go to another server,” The Beun cut in.

He was worried about a voice, it wasn’t hers. In the voice chat nearby, people were saying slurs.

Loading… Loading… Loading… His unfazed smile was pretend. Blissfully unaware, Maumo moved with her friend.

“Wishing myself and other people a wonderful Happy 2024 year. My vision is as easy as 1234567 New year, no Fake Faces in my life ” Happiness only Free Conscious No more haters Mind cage-free and peaceful me No more Stress, no more abuse, no more confusing people near me, life is life Joy and happiness are priceless to me”.

“My good lady, are we selling a sand castle bucket for five dollars to a total stranger?” Fitzwilliams called out from the foyer.

“No, dear,” Elizabeth said. “It’s a kit with little shovels too. Make sure you remember the little shovels.”

Befuddled, Fitzwilliams walked into their sun drenched kitchen with crumpled singles. By the patio doors, his beloved was wrestling a potted lemon tree. He hurried to her side and righted the behometh.

“Bing once remarked there is always something new to be observed in people. So love perchance are we sand castle business merchants unawares?”

Fitzwilliams held up the burly tree with shiny leaves and yellow green fruit the size of walnuts. Pink petals in her hair, Elizabeth was taking a close up photo of the tree’s leaves.

“Of course not darling. You remember Jane invited me to the local SWAP and then naturally I joined the Buy & Sell. Remember that giant redheaded Irishman I had in the sun room,” Elizabeth said. “With the comical lean.”

Fitzwilliam remembered no such thing but it nettled him to admit ignorance and he’d been married long enough to know not to admit to not listening to his missus. Nodding knowingly, Fitzwilliams leaned the lopsided tree against the counter. Little lemons bounced on the marble island.

“I swapped that cactus for a dwarf Meyer lemon tree. Our sun room is prone to damp so I’m going tropical. This seemed more genteel on Facebook. Regardless it bears fruit year round.”

Graceful head held high, Elizabeth gathered her first harvest in her hoodie and walked to the not sunny enough sun room. Fitzwilliams with lemon tree followed and wondered if they were now in the fruit business.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, a forgotten lore of cherries galore went missing from my gaze. How frightened I had been to see my sweetened cherries lost, t’was only then I had realized the clock struck midnight and I awoke with a shiver. ‘Twas merely a dream thank god, for such a think missing would be tragic, I’m sure.