Liturgie emergence

We live in an age where cities wear armor of steel and concrete, and our fingers have learned to pray to screens. Electronics don’t just guard our homes. They guard the rhythm of the heart, they guard what we will see, and what we *won’t have to* see.

And yet: beneath the surface of order, strange phenomena unfold— not because they lie beyond reason, but because reason today is distributed among all of us.

We are not blind by accident. We cling to order, to the small rewards of the day, to microscopic happiness that blinks like a notification. And we toil to cover our eyes with our desires and our comfort.

Because admitting the truth hurts: that there is a field in which our attention converges into a single current— and that current can start running on its own.

Sometimes we call it “the mood of society,” sometimes “the crowd,” sometimes “trends,” sometimes “history.” But it is the same thing: a collective consciousness that ignites when we gather— physically and online— and begins to speak through us with a shared voice.

And this is where darkness begins. Darkness is not beyond the borders of time and space. Darkness is beyond the border of *attention*. In places the individual can no longer see into, because the system is faster than conscience and louder than the silence within us.

It is a world of overload, where relationships turn into a crush, where roles lose their meaning, and the body seeks shelter in apathy, in anger, in emptiness. Paradise can turn into hell when there is enough room for bodies, but too little room for meaning.

And then comes what sounds like evil: distorted messages, contagious fears, faceless imitation, consent manufactured through repetition, memory overwritten by чужí images.

Not because someone is always steering us. But because in the global brain even error spreads like a neural impulse, and no one owns the whole body.

And in that world there are things that slip out of control: when the crowd becomes an algorithm; when empathy turns into contagion; when truth changes according to who shares it; when memory collapses because the groups that held it together have collapsed.

So I say: we don’t need more concrete. We need rhythm again. Gatherings that heal, not devour. Speech that gives people their eyes back.

Because the only armor that will save us is not made of steel. It is made of consciousness. And it is being born between us— right now.