It's a chilly winter night. The cold seeps into skin that wasn't prepared to receive it. You didn't know, as you walked toward your home, that it could get this cold this soon. You step through the door of your apartment, your suburban home, or your dorm. It doesn't matter where you are going, but you live here.

You think to yourself, as you come home from school or work, Maybe I will order takeout. I have to catch up on some work. I can't forget to pay that bill. You set down your books, your phone, your keys. And you find somewhere to chill.

Putting on your favorite streaming series of choice, you buckle down to destress from the worries of the day. Perhaps you had a rough day at work. Perhaps that paper took too long to write. Perhaps you wonder about a friendship or relationship. But you need to chill, you need to just be for a moment. And if that means putting on the streaming equivalent of junk food on the TV, well, you're here for it.

Ready to veg out for the next few hours, you plop down on your favorite chair. Your body is tense from the cares of the day, and you just want to finally relax.

But you don't.

A Visit from the Spirit of Our Times

Your device fails.

It's never failed like this. You've never, ever had problems with this electronic. You start to get frustrated because you can't return to your screen. The lights in the room, already dim, flicker in an unsettling way. You hear a steady, plastic footfall. A preternatural cold permeates the air in a way that holds your attention.

"Do you know who I am?" a voice booms from behind you. Your back stiffens and you try not to look. If you don't turn around it will go away. Must have been something weird you ate.

"Answer me, bruh!" the voice demands, nearly shaking your dwelling with its immeasurable force. Tentatively, tentatively, you peek behind you.

The sight before you is bizarre. A glowing specter of a figure, with a man bun, ripped jeans, and a blazer stares back at you. But this is only the beginning. This figure, its eyes obscured by mirrored sunglasses, carries the immense weight of rusty chains with a rubbery plastic coating. From these chains hang a variety of things. Smartphones, plastic grocery bags, oil barrels, a selfie stick, a small tablet with angry political commentators in constant rotation, and an entire cybertruck (somehow).This bothers you. It's very weird. And it should be weird. This is probably the weirdest thing you've seen in your life and you really should be kind of concerned.

"Who are you?" you query, in spite of yourself. You are flummoxed and lowkey disturbed. The spirit, slowly lifting its hand to its carefully maintained beard, draws nearer with that plasticky clink, blinged out shoes sparkling in the dim light.

"I am Zeitgeist," it tells you, and you maybe heard the word before and you maybe didn't. You probably think, "Sounds German." And if you are German, you think, "Das ist Deutsch." The details are irrelevant.

"Go on," you tell the spirit, somewhat intrigued though you can still hear the frantic mumblings of the commentators on the tablet running in the background. You had hoped that would have been your comfort show minutes ago and are kind of annoyed.

"I am the Spirit of the Times, bruh," the specter elaborates, placing a hand on its hip, a hip padded by bubble wrap packaging. "My dude, you've kept your mind on some stuff and it's kind of cringe. When I walked this world, I was constantly distracted. I couldn't focus on thinking because I was overthinking."

"But what does this have to even do with me? I just wanted to watch my series!" you complain, starting to get peeved with this ghost.

"So, like, did you know that thinking about the world around you and how it works isn't your side hustle? You spent your time, what you had left of it, buying cheap crap out of your stress. You spent your time glued to your phone for hours at a time. You scrolled and posted picture after filtered picture of yourself for an audience of randos. You spent waaaaay too much time thinking about how to market your hobbies." The spirit paces the room as it speaks, the cybertuck moving effortlessly behind, but in an offensive, unaesthetic manner.

"But so what?" you say. "What does this have to do with me? What can I even do other than live a life where I am stressed every day? Where I am worried about what people will say on my socials, how to move up in my career, in school! Like, I am barely supporting myself!" You can feel an edge to your voice that transcends defensive.

The spirit pauses and edges its way toward you, the clunky, unnatural footfalls from its blinged out shoes sending a shiver down your spine. Centimeters from your face, the spirit takes off its sunglasses.

You swallow hard as you see not eyes, but voids where eyes once existed. You try to back up, but the spirit attempts to seize you by the arm. Futile, its ghastly hand simply goes through you. It faces you, without eyes.

"You were called for something beyond the anxiety. Your business is humanity and your own mind. When did you last question the world around you? When did I? That is literally why I wear these ridiculous chains. I am everything you said you hate about the world to your friends. But I am you." The spirit quickly replaces its sunglasses, and they reflect your own startled face.

The Three Spirits of Philosophy

"I called some rideshares for some friends of mine. At the stroke of midnight, expect the first. They will visit you and show you what I'm talking about. Just go with it. Be chill and maybe you won't share my sucktastic fate."

"But, but..." You don't even know what to say.

"Remember. At the stroke of midnight, the first of my geisty friends will arrive by app. Don't forget, don't forget! Save yourself!" The commentators on the tablet stop talking for a brief second, and for that time, you think to yourself, Man, this is a little too weird.

But soon the commentators come back full force. Zeitgeist shrugs and turns around, whispering, "Peace ouuuuuuuut."

And it is gone. It just vanishes and you wonder if maybe you need to see a doctor about this. You stare at the place where the spirit stood, dumbstruck. Then you tell yourself, Screw this, it's time for bed.

Continue reading here ...