Friday, November 14, 2008

The Last Life

An unappetizing mix of chemical dependency and depression.  The kind of depression that mutes color and sound.  That makes sex uninteresting, and people into objects.  Who is the great and powerful auctioneer?  Who is selling all these slaves?  

There isn't anything glorious about working your whole life.  There isn't anything glorious about a cathedral.   They built the wrong things.  They kept secrets.  Each greedy hand held something back, and never gave enough to make a difference.  

Poverty is not a social disease.  It is a byproduct of the system and it is ineveitable.  There is more than enough money to go around, but we are not the ones in control.  I have no power.  I have no say.  I have to work so that I can feed myself and the ones I love.  Love is the leverage they use against us so that we will not stop working.  The police is what they use when that love turns violent.  We are trapped in a prison.  There is no escape.  All we can do is decorate the walls and watch television.  We can make something and sell it.  We can work harder.

I am drained, exhausted.  My mind is fried.  I've been thinking about thinking about changing my life.  I've been waiting for something to happen, but all that has transpired in my life is arbitrary and accidental.  Everything about where I am from, a place less than 300 years old, is about being something else.  You make yourself a little empire and you crown yourself king.  Ruler of all things.  Master of possibility.  This is the last life I'll be able to make for myself and it has already begun to crumble.  Like a wounded soldier trying to stuff his guts back into his abdomen after a shell goes off, or a laborer tasked with digging a latrine in a rain storm.