The light burned bright as the night crawled in.
Burnt out workers put their heads to bed and dream dreams of long island iced teas and clinging on to youth.
This is the generation that feeds on over-exposure, of long hours and mind-rape, of soul snatching, finger-breaking, eyeball stinging grafting and rewarded in nothing but something they call ‘minimum wage.’
We don’t write postcards anymore because we simply don’t have the time. Nor do we have the time; to sit, to access thoughts that might provoke, to liberate one’s senses, to enjoy some simple pleasure. Yet the sun still rises and sets and the moon still greets us each evening and we just get older and the lines on our faces grow much deeper. Conversations lack and we break our backs trying to ‘just get by’.
Everything takes. Take the skin from my bones. Will that be enough?
Take the story I once told. Will that be enough?
We dance in synchronicity with a world that inexplicably vomits emptiness.
Speak to me. Make a connection.
We are just meat in shells. Hard-wired to seek meaning in all the wrong places.
We are smothered by hypocrisy and the masks are nailed to the pretty faces, but they tell you that you aren’t pretty enough. Just another mouth left to feed. Just another cog in the machine.
The strings must be cut, we must be set free. Without fear, without redemption.
Without sweating out of frustration.
Leap into the sweet, sweet blooming redness of life. Swell with excitement in the company of like-minded people. People. Flesh and bone and blood, like you, like me. Powered by electricity and dreams. Allow the colours blast like vivid fireworks right here, in your living room. We are bodies engorged with imagination and creativity. We are conversations, let them bleed intelligence. Let’s growth these spirits of ours. Isn’t this the life we’re meant to suckle upon?.
Away from the politics of clowns and the destruction of free-will. Away from meandering relationships and flesh-eating consumerism.
Back to the garden. Into the starlight. Embraced by the full flavour of compassion.
Let us not be held back, bound by the wishes of the upper-class, of the power-hungry beasts. Free from the currency of greediness; those greasy, gluttonous hands.