Harsh realities of losing hope

Worn out and walking around
Trying to open my eyes. All around, there’s the blind leading the blind and chickens with their heads cut off; whatever you want to call them.

I’m caught in a slew of nothingness, or just too many things happening all at once. There’s no fine balance,
but a brutal divide.

Cruel capitalist world for someone whose heart is set on riding a hay wagon. You may think “that’s so 1800s,” but I developed roots from parts of the world that still do that. That’s where my heart is… in the simple things, primitive basic work, hand sewn clothes… and the utter desire to feel human. I wash my hair with rye flour to do that.

But I’m hit with the harsh realities that people have been hit with
During the time of the agricultural revolution
Or the industrial revolution
Or the capitalist sweep and the degradation of everything.

I’m standing still in the moving crowd. The business people are actively, actively seeking to destroy the environment for imaginary money and fast cars. The civilian stomach growls,
waiting to be fed cheese and bacon. Majority of the world sleeps inhaling the comforting scent of synthetic compounds, and the rest of the world is headed there.

In days like these I feel hopeless. Like an ant holding onto a massive leaf. An insect trying to crawl against a landslide…
A drop of sunshine during mid winter.
A handful of crowd against a multi-billion population.

What I have to say is so meaningless.

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Playful primates

Is this our definition of work? Not using hands… to grab things. To hold and to throw. To pick and to rub together with our fingers. To climb a tree, to use legs to clench and to use the upper body to lead through a branch. To swing from it and to land using our arms as a cushion against the ground. To walk boundless without any walls. To live in a spell of peace with sprinkles of territorial quarrels and battles. We now create walls to repel it, but fly over them anyway… and have wars. Massive humans. Massive wars.

What if it wasn’t today; the mid point? What if it was the high point before we thrived and replicated and made so many of us and endangered everything else? That high point where we had more freedom to be just us. Walking, climbing, breathing, foraging, living, dreaming,
playful primates.

 

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Red planet

Here I am, in the red planet. The atmosphere here stings my skin as I sit alone in this arid dust bowl. The sky’s red and it’s making my eyes bleed. My crimped hair’s brittle and it obscures my vision. My throat’s dry and I squirm on the rocky ground in dreams of quenching thirst. My mouth thinks it’s water, but I’m eating dirt. It gets inside my fingernails. It smears across my face. I grab a handful of it and let it squeeze out of my clenched fists. Am I even human anymore? Am I a machine? Am I an empty shell? Am I just dying slowly and awaiting to be filled by your holy water in the palms of my hand?
Release me in the downpour of a summer’s rain.
Let it splash across my face like being roped in the tides of your love.
I think of jittery visions of your powerful arms around my waist from a thousand years ago, and your tender kiss underneath the waterfalls in paradise. I can warp back in time to when the world glowed before my innocent eyes, and you saw it from across the room and then asked me out.
There was a world once where the birds flew over the rainforest, and we made love on the ground after a spell of laughter. There was a time when the sun set and you followed me to the beach, and I saw its beautiful reflection in your striking eyes. Redo the moment when I was pinned against the wall and I believed in your promise of true love murmured near my ears. There are wires deep inside that bond to my brain and it recollects your hidden flesh. It resurrects before my eyes in a way that’s truly holy. If there’s god, I believe in one and it’s in the form of your warm-blooded body. Your body, that of a Greek god, naked and pale stands before me. Is it you, or are you a flickering image prerecorded and absent? I reach out my crooked finger to touch you but it just passes through. My eyes squint and blink sporadically while they shut. Let me believe that I’m not dreaming. Wake me up and tell me that we’re sitting in back of the taxi cab once more near the city shores. The city is so alive and the air is humid and hot, and there’s sweet scent of your warm breath tantalizing over my neck. I reach to cover it. My teeth are chattering. My body is shivering in cold. A wave of sediments blow and deposit over it, and I wonder how long I’ll live like this.

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