Forget love, it’s lust that I’m after. Forget Time. I always forget time anyways. If I had one million threads they still wouldn’t fill up the internet, If I had the right nose, I still wouldn’t be on TV.
We are five people, maybe eight on a good day, engrossed by market creation, consumed by consumerism.
I love expensive things, because they’re the best.
It’s as if the internet and feminism and fingertip knowledge never came about. It’s as if coach bags and freedom fighters carry the same things: chapstick, pocketbooks, doctrine, change.
The pining is a constant circus praised in the sanctuary of Pinterest and television. We are like broken pottery, each commercial a decisive crunch on our brittle integrity. Each dollar we spend a boon to our personal economy — feed your ego price-tags and receipts. Show everyone you have the very best. Body, car, judgement, happiness, children, life. All of it.
Picture consumerism and selfishness swinging on vines through the jungle trees.
Picture a department store christmas in a fire ravaged wood.
Picture your Merceratti Z plowing through the barren monstrosity of an Antarctic plain.
You can’t, can you?
Now picture a fly so small that you only notice it by its elongating shadow, by its rippling wake in the water, by the sound of it knocking against the window glass.
Let me out.
Let. Me. Out.
When you say you want to move, change, have, better, remember you are speaking with the voice of humanity who has wanted and wanted for centuries. You are not different, and that’s okay. But after all those years of pining and pining for eons for more, why can’t we just stop?
Can you believe what the Jones’s spent on their pizza oven?
George just got a raise.
It’s as if money is to be equally envied and scorned. We are blips in a campaign of humanity vs. humanity. Fighting the war between the haves and have nots, between poor and power. But we are all have-nots. We are all poor and powerless. So we all strive for more.
Now you have to figure out if all those years on earth added up to something. If the days of toiling for the capitalist green, fighting your way through the tiers of tyrannical bureaucracy are worth an entire life. Is it happiness that you’re after? Satisfaction? To quash the terrifying thought that maybe it means nothing and you’ve wasted god knows how many years? Go ahead, count. I’ll wait.
If it’s mundanity that you’re after, boy you’ve found it. If it’s depression that you dabble in, join the club. It’s the terrifying truth - life just goes on and on and on. An endless purgatory of parallel disillusionment. Individual toils paired with individual toils, alongside brief and momentary bliss. We hurry past it, eager, so eager to get to the next one day…
It goes by so quickly, and snakes by so slowly. So we fill it with desire to feel important, to feel famous. Your love is not better than mine or his or hers. Your facebook posts quantify nothing. The zeitgeist is a moving target of impossibility.
And though I strive for these things they're not what I'm after, because deep down I know that if I had a million threads I still couldn’t fill up the internet. If I had a bigger kitchen I still wouldn’t be a better mom. If I did a thousand selfless acts, I still couldn’t be Oprah. And if I had the right nose, I still wouldn’t be on tv.