Singularity

The mass of functions contained within a limited, finite volume has increased so exponentially that the point has been reached where it finally collapses into its own singularity of meaning: a collection of potential uses so vast that they are crushed under the weight of their own potential, cancelling each other out, eating each other up, imploding into an intimate black hole whose sole object of gravitational pull appears to be the human gaze, the mind’s attention, which it pulls in beyond its event horizon of formlessness and obliterates under the infinite weight of functional apotheosis.

The other day his iphone stopped working. It sat there on his table looking for all the world like the opposite of a thing, not really a nothing, more a void, like a piece of the room was missing, like it’s beveled black anti-matter was ever so gently absorbing the light, energy and air, or some other imperceptible but vital force out from the space just around it on the table. He hadn’t noticed that particular aspect of it before, but then he was usually too busy playing Angry Birds Star Wars on it. The next morning he came downstairs to find that it was quite clearly bleeding, melting, or rotting, doing something biological, something very un-iphone-like. Swirls of magenta, ochre, ultramarine, rainbows like gasoline leaks were softening its edges, its insides were swelling and the corners of bright, dripping shapes were beginning to protrude from its now diaphanous, bent and punctured skin. He made himself coffee and stood in front of the table watching as his old phone burst, grew out, spread up and flowered forms so loud, abundant, riotous and intricate that standing there, feebly clutching his favourite mug with both hands, he was spellbound. Where the carcass of his iphone had been only the night before was now a mad little totem of wildness, a feast for the eyes that was just as silent as its inert predecessor, but which rather than negating itself, was bleeding itself into the air around it, spilling its colours gently out into his tablecloth, sparkling chromatically with the flecks of sunlight that reached it through the window. Its abundance was too great for its tiny size and it was giving itself up to the room around it, to him. He was late and needed to leave, and instinctively reached into his pocket to take a picture with his phone. Realising, he stood for a minute longer then ran for the door, assuming it wouldn’t be there when he got back.