The future

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

"what a bohemian would do"


Wearily lain awake,
Clasping hold of sleep.
Life is a fiery lake.
Why can I not weep?

We're all one and the same,
Yet I remain bound to myself.
They say it's all just a game,
A line to consider,
When burning in hell.

Body arrested, mind zapped,
Eyes alert in horror
Fuck this. I'm getting up.
I'm bothered but why bother?


What is a flying monkey?

Is it an insult to call one a flying monkey?


When an academic bureaucrat says they're always here if one needs to talk, it's an empty gesture. There is a subtle force which prevents meaningful discourse.


When I'm around my mother I can't help but feel resentment. I don't respect her and I despise her way of life. But still she's human and it hurts to dismiss and ignore her. I just feel like I can't talk to her. Her boyfriend is ...


When I picture my future, I can't bring myself to acknowledge the most likely outcome - I will be bound to a dark pit of despair, homeless in a Blade Runner city, controlled by all the same bleak circumstances as of now. Work. Money. Anxiety. Depression. A feeling of worthlessness, of wasting away, all of my potential to have worth and do good disintegrating before my eyes. I don't want my soul to be split, to have any further part in menial, tiresome work. I want to use more than a few simple skills, cultivated only to financially benefit corportate entities, a mere fraction of what I am. I don't want to be forced to manipulate and be dishonest out of necessity. I don't want to be half a man. 

Instead, I picture a sort of utopia. It's hard for me to accept the unlikeliness of this event coming true, but what I see is a green, verdant field, mountains in the distance - and there I am cheerfully engaged in labour. Not the meaningless labour imposed upon us by industrial capitalism, but genuine labour - tending to crops. Crops I will later eat or share or trade for other necessities. I want to live in a minimalistic and wholesome fashion, amid wild plants and domesticated animals. Hell, I'd even settle for a caveman style life - if that were still possible for a confused and indoctrinated white man a third of the way through his life. 

But you see this as a pitiful mirage; you see me as a dreamer, one whose head is in the clouds. And in fact you might well not pay attention at all to what I've said, because noone will read this except myself. But why do I care so much whom will read this? Do I want to influence others? Clearly not, or I'd be something more than antisocial and misanthropic, right? It saddens me, really. Christopher Hitchens himself warns of the danger of misanthropy. Yet I'm weirdly unsocial, anxious, capricious and psychologically devastated - so misanthropy presents itself as an enticing temptation indeed. 

I just need a slower pace. To work on a farm even! I'll tolerate the drug withdrawals... Yes, I very much like to take diazepam and propanolol. Also alcohol and weed. I appreciate odd doses of psychedelics and ketamine too. I sense your judgement when it comes to this admission. What can I say other than I deem my drug use to be necessary to my survival in this sick, sad world, regardless of your prejudices. 

I won't let the mire perpetually hold me down. I have a desire for happiness and to feel free and not shackled. Perhaps one day I'll be more mature? When I look back at myself through my mind's eye, I see my soul unclearly through a cloudy haze. Sometimes that elusive spark is there, but trapped, as in an atmosphere of inert gas, wherein no reaction may occur. But sometimes it's all cleared up, and oxygen is present. Sometimes in there a clean, smokeless fire is raging. It's those moments I must capture as I hope for better days.

Submitted: March 08, 2021

© Copyright 2021 olive tree. All rights reserved.

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