It’s a good thing…

I wonder how it is that two people can scrape by for an entire year and at the end of it owe a government who does shit for them money. And how someone can afford to spend thousands of dollars on couches and tables and plates and empty but sealed wine bottles and bags of fake apples and faux antique chairs made of faux animal hair and enormous mirrors the size of an entire wall – and get money back from the government.

How is it that I can barely have enough to pay for a roof over me and my spouses head, we break our backs and ruin our days so rich people can eat rich bullshit from tropical countries that we spend our hours putting together so they never have to raise a hand or finger – and we are the ones who have to pay while they get enormous checks in the mail?

What’s wrong with this picture?

I don’t own a car. I don’t need these roads and stop lights and street lights and chlorinated water and police forces with batons and horses. I don’t want these wars and these foreign policies and these neon signs lighting billboards along roadways that are ruining my experience. I don’t want these medical services or these indoctrination services or these bully forces or these rich well-to-dos making decisions about what I ought to be doing. I don’t want these houses with their poor designs and their high arching ceilings and their lack of comfort in their mass-produced tangled rat mazes of neighborhoods. I don’t want these shitty heaters that burn and burn and burn without a sense of connection to any of the things we’re burning.

And yet, we are the ones paying for it all.
Paying so that soldiers can fly across the world to go stick a gun in the face of someone I have no reason to fear. Paying so that companies who have no connection to any of us or any of the laws we’re held by can ruin our food and decimate the ground and make it impossible for the plants that once grew to grow anymore. So that rich billionaires can make careless decisions to make it so the rest of us can’t get a drink of water or a breath of air that isn’t poisoned anymore. Paying so that our children can have their brains shut off and their heads stuffed full of incorporated bullshit, instead. Paying so that the rest of us holding all this shit on our shoulders can keep pretending that we’re “making a living” by scraping together some shit the rich want – and then paying for it to keep going.

What the fuck am I doing?

Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s?
Well, he can have all this shit. That’s for sure.
Maybe it’s time to take a hint from Thoreau, after all.

Complications

I oft times find myself in a sort of slough – creatively, spiritually, emotionally, mentally. All of the above. As if the wind has stopped blowing in my direction and the air around me has become stagnant, bogged down with the pollution of light and chemicals and societal bullshit that I am forced to trudge through every day I wake.

I have dreams of things, better things. Living in a hand-built house with a clear roof where the sun wakes me in the morning as its coming up. Where there isn’t light pollution that would stop me from living that way. Where a horse is still a realistic form of travel. Where magic is still magic. Where life is still worth living.

Have I mentioned that this system has sucked all the life and will to live out of me?
If you haven’t noticed, I’m a skeleton. Or worse, a corpse with all the rotting skin still hanging off me. Fat still collecting underneath from all the riches I still cling to, all the wealth I still engage in, all the privilege I still claim. My eyes are sunken in so far I can’t see past my own skull and my face is a ghost of what I thought it once was going to be, by this time in my life. But, all the drugs are still doing their job so I just keep walking around.

I wonder if I’m more scared of death or just suffering. Just that one split second bolt of fear that comes the moment you realise you haven’t died – but could have. Or should have. Or would have, had you not done whatever it was that preserved you.

I’m not so certain that it’s worth preserving anymore.
Maybe I’ll stop trying and see if that gets me out of this box, out of these shackles, out from behind this insurmountable wall.

If I can muster the gut to remember that life is simple and dying isn’t terrible.
And neither is very hard to accomplish.

It’s hard to tell if I can break free. Like a bird in a cage who knows the combination, but not whether it has the nerve to open the little metal gate and fly free.

Do I even remember how to fly?
Did I ever even learn?

We’ll see.