Emotional Archaeology

Born into real estate slavery, water might be the one remaining place that’s free to live in, a pacific public property, but is it fit for a family to live sustainably?

With labor and collective thinking, maybe. Nothing that ever comes easy is worth it. Nothing is ever as hard as it seems. Maybe there’s freedom in poverty, in the post-apocalyptic Gini coefficient we might yet fear into being.

Why do we give all of our time to a place we hate, doing things we tolerate, just to take time off for a change? People leave their marriage just like changing socks. They drop off their kids like a post on a blog. What would happen if we all just walked away from our jobs?

What if we left behind the arrogance, the nautilus of pride? What if we never lied? Those comments made in a mood one day, the white wine one time things that were said, they live on long after we’re dead, a plastic Texas floating in oceanic tragedy.

Why get paid a minimum-wage for your finite and precious days? Life is a game for the living to play; everyone that’s alive today is making the world what it is in their own special way. A chess match you can’t take the moves back, once you take your finger off the peace, that’s that. It’s finished. Rome was sacked. There’s no going back home. Dead and buried. Long gone the creed of cutthroat. Get up and get on down the road. Don’t let them get your goat. Dig a foundation, not a moat.

The less you talk the more you hear. The more I listen patiently, brush away the dirt of ages to peace together shards of pottery, the handiwork of my ancestry, the more I find they’re so much like me. They live and die and in between they find the time to love and sleep and eat. What did you do today? How can I help? What do you need?

Forgiveness granted, even withstanding our fierce brutality, the violent tendencies of matter stirring restlessly in the torment of a rageful cosmic fantasy, lava spilling into sea until the butterfly of the conscious mind alights upon the flower of our humanity.

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