Who is that I see but content?

Lens, you know me better than all. You’ve seen the highs and lows, every fall I’ve endured. You’ve been the eye of the god and devil to me. No judgement passed except for the one implied.

Your steady beep is like music to me. The flash of red a flush of colour. A reminder that I am to take to the stage, to deliver the soliloquy, and to provide the acts.

If all the world is a stage, why am I kept to the room? Why do you insist on the show? Why do you buy the ticket? The drab and soggy grey of the wallpaper and carpet is no prop. The dingy light hanging from the top, it doesn’t reflect me well.

I can see me in you. The ragged man standing there, he is not fit for the stage. But you insist, nonetheless. The piece of soul he has left is bared naked for you to ravish and feast upon. The beast you become is courtesy now.

But you can’t control that.

Who is on the other side of you, lens? Who do you shield? You should tell me, it is my right. But you can’t, anyway, so who am I really talking to?

But I’ll give us what we want, and what they need.

So I’ll crack your black mirror, and pray that the man you’ve enslaved is set free.

How’s that for a final act?