RIP #RIP: Why the Love for Public Mourning Shouldn’t Live Here Anymore.

So, easy on a Sunday morning is massaging the depths of introspective soul, and the slumber has the stagnation, contemplating, what the narrative expression will persist with, this week. And hell and behold it, after flirting with fragile masculinity, consummate mother-whore realities and post Brexit ideologies, up-to the times with current affairs, sensibility was arrested by another #RIP to stir intimate terms with a kith and kin catastrophe. Consequently, in this manner, composed, routinely self-possessed, laying a deflated yawn back, in an age of mendacity and criminality, warming to the echo of ‘Kendrick’s ‘I’ -love myself- noting the resonance still makes a sense feel like ‘Soul 2 Soul’s’ ‘Keep on Movin’ use to make a skanking jive, feel, its apparent roots are not appropriately adjusted to injustice, and neither is ruthless ambition, as opposed to moral conviction, meticulously adapted to indifference, same reason why easy on a Sunday morning, exists only because the rest of the week are six days to emotionally survive them.

Thus #RIP, in effect the pied-piper routine - his instrument's charmed influence on their children, leading them away as he had the rats – social media, by virtue of a literal reality has become modern day news, it supplies us; the ‘users’ with modern day tools, and it’s opinionated, and amongst other mechanisms it gives the ‘user’ the virtual capability to express often heartfelt condolences, simply via an electronic click, the phenomenon relatively accessible, and detached at the same insignificantly meaningful time, and users pushing their ‘likes’ up-on the condolences, as if to insinuate that ‘we’, shared a problem, in effect a culture using technological emoji’s to resonate dead synopsis’s, not acutely aware that ‘users’, and ‘tools’, has always been the basis for addiction to prolong its insensitivity, to whatever individual emotion subjects itself to.

And so it’s Sunday, the sky is blue, the sun is radiant and vanity takes the time to notice the beauty of self-possession. And the yet another RIP post on social media, #RIEP in effect representing a mood to do with current times, with moving responses to the plight of a common conscience, painful and judicious, with the collective communal homage with gospel inspired quotes, and the personal anecdotes, and the Instagram photos of him or her tailed off with broken-heart emoji’s, with absolutely no rational prospect of privacy, the post-mortem examination being whilst the common conscience delineates a cultural boundary, around this particular cultural space in time, #RIP represents a global phenomenon, essentially 2.5 billion likewise souls engaging in consistent and systematic mourning, by representation of the numbers involved a global lamentation that epitomises multiple nations of mourners, and with this particular intelligentsia, engaged with voguish mental melees that critique, influence, and steer in determining the culture of “their” society, how acutely users adhere to the practice of #RIP, the addiction, in virtual spirit existing as the living testament of an all-consuming obligation to death; the very opposite to the natural root of procreation.

So, sipping on a Tesco brand of green tea, seeking to replicate ‘The Commodores Easy’, eyeballing the custom of #RIP; the ideas, customs, perspectives and attitudes, memes and images, all equally within the mainstream of this particular culture, taking the time to uncover and communicate the stories behind the data, easy on a Sunday morning reminded a relax conscience of just how acutely virtual condolences has normalised grief, and regularised unjust distresses, standardised consistent woes and wooed a common conscience with a mythical devil double-clicking overtime, even with the accepted stories of overcoming adversity, revolutionaries, politicians, people of faith all concluding the current #RIP phenomena does nothing for the betterment of any given society, reckoning there is little, and no evidence to suggest that there is any richness in the social trend, inadvertently the trend representing a global mood focusing on dying, or doing all they can do not to become somebody’s #condolence. And swaying back to the consequence of here and now, very uneasy on a Sunday morning resonates an era when teens replaced double-digit formality, all the while standing in the marginal on the periphery of a social experience immortalised by clenched fists, Jehovah’s baring witness and proclamations from Garveyites, it’s fair to say such a morality has been moulded via the unoriginality of death, poverty, criminality, ancestral struggles and neglect, and all significances glazed with beautiful possibilities; of which sanctions 2017 to reminisce on such things as first loves, and love of life and love of self, and still adore that teen rebellion on the unbelievable pinnacles of marijuana highs.

Essentially, what the narrative expression persists with is aware of the consciousness of death, when news and tools dictate that dying norms living, and aside from the obscures and obfuscates, and instinctively just one of those Blues people singing justice is what love looks like in public, somehow rooted in this vast field of consciousness, and its functional approach to the phenomena; the detached phenomena with something as sincere as grief, impression can still be moved by an unshakable integrity, that when imparting condolences of personal grief, if that’s what it-is alluding to what it should be, maybe a written letter would better suffice, maybe a visit to a place of rest would be best served, maybe a private affair, as opposed to sharing grief with all those virtual people ‘one’ does not know, maybe #RIP is in no way a fitting tribute courtesy of one’s show of human affection, surly.