Sympathy for Apathy? Pathetic.

Wise blind men in tales of old wander without guidance, navigating into the thicket of what beckons the bewildered heart, as those lost in the bright screens of harsh chips squint to decipher daily lies conjured from the mind of a fool's jester. All men are blind in times without kings, where the shrills of drunken banshees stumbling around the Court echo into shadowed timbers and musty brick roads. Regal ceremonies sparsely fill high ceilings illuminated by candlelight, as beastlike men turned braggart cheer and laugh away horrors of blood shed and lives lost, in a time when daily hangovers nowhere compare to the brutal nature of existence. Gallons of sweat moisten tilled Earth one bead at a time, rolling off the face of a sickly man, wasted away to the frame, stuck on the range of unfair debts and savage torture. Primitive is the idea of ownership of life, in a deal struck upon a handshake and stack of paper, fragile enough for ink to bleed and base decompose in steady rain. The peasant coughs and wheezes, living only days beyond the body's ability to wear itself down through disheartening labor, grinding bones, tasting mud, gritting dirt, blistering hands and feet, straining the mind with lost dreams and hope, beliefs unmet by brighter days. Fear of the imminent and punishment for lethargy trumps the peasants will to brace for the inevitable and sacrifice itself for a breath of free air. The same shades of gray, new songs of blue, we give our only worldly gift, consuming our hour, all upon a world turned sour, under clouds covering the frown of a mighty unknown, from which we will always cower, it growls with anger and shame, as we mindlessly give away our only worldly gift, to assumed power or fame, unattainable in the very name, of that which is unknown. The mind of a peasant is empty, their spirit is broken, life within dies long before the clock stops ticking. Swarms of working corpses breed, and feed, off fruits undeserved, and land reserved, for those who refuse to be molded into anything other than the naked and free, servants of nothing outside the smile and wonder of that which is unknown.

The Runaway Dock

Pull apart curtains of fear, let them slip beneath blanketed leafs rustled by unknown footsteps. Let go of the inevitable, shortcomings of our ancestors rest in invisible hands, trembling as they brace fragile twines of the interwoven, rooted in the obscurities of proud tales and grand times.

Shiver not in the face of doom, brandish grins and songs. Laugh, love, let go. You will never win until you let go. Puzzles of knowledge and existence await, lend your hand, solve the riddle, pry open the chest, open the door. You won’t know what’s on the other side, and never will without courage to peek.

Reach the summit, ignore directions, diverge from paths laid before your feet, climb with vigor as you pass outside doubt. You can make it through the storm, look ahead, hunger for triumph, revel in the pain, know that you will both survive and die.

Drift carelessly down the winding river of time, dip toes in the clarity of flow, you will reach your destination, it waits more impatiently every day, make it wait; you are free, until you vanish outward into the great delta.

Money Lust

It's what the fighting's all about, shout, drunkenly wave money in front of bartenders, hoping to buy their attention. The quietest guy with the fattest wallet is the drunkest.

It cost 663 billion to receive 497 casualties in Afghanistan, it cost a dollar to buy six yuan, eighty yen, Elliot Spitzer spent eighty-grand on nude friends. Your favorite baseball team, sitcom, movie, website, road, song, all stalked and interrupted for a commercial, why do something you want when you could be spending money instead of time?

A fourth of all hard earned money is taken by officials who spend it on things people don't want or receive, to put the voter in jail, to force the voter to pay public debt, to make the voter pay the IRS, to make the voter pay for war, to give the voter a DUI or speeding ticket, to tell the voter what they can and can't do, to remind the voter of this, to threaten the voter, to oppress or beat the voter, to mace or tase the voter, to shoot the voter, to convict the voter, to put the voter to sleep, to tell the voter they can't speak.

Tax season, right after Winter, is the coldest of seasons, when people are forced to recollect on their year of money, wasted or invested, fill out paperwork backed by the modern debtors prison, while the nation is bankrupted and busted, while the taxpayer has lost their home, their car, their job, their sense of purpose, their pride.

For an hour of cleaning a strangers fecal matter out of a metal pipe you can make twelve dollars, for playing pretend on a TV you can make twelve million. Twelve million dollars will make girls sleep with you, make people worship you, make people reflect on themselves and wish they were you, though they don't know you. Houses too big to heat, dinners too big to eat, guests too small to greet, money lets you treat others how you wish them to be treated.

It can turn your grandfather into a cosigner, and your cosigner wants nothing to do with you after debt goes unpaid, regardless of the blood, the memory, the bond that existed before the bank turns humans into shape shifters. Money can buy happiness, it can end marriage, it can put a price on human life, it can cause people to kill, it can cause people to enjoy killing.

Everyone wants it, nobody understands it, most people are indebted by it, money has bought slaves, money has created slaves, money can free slaves, the all-powerful paper, falls apart in water, burns in fire, blows away with the wind, its existence relies merely on an agreement that it exists, though we are not always convinced we exist, money will exist after us, though it is us who create and give value to money. Money will bury you.

We spend 70% of our lives working and being forced to do things so we can make enough money to enjoy the other 30%. If you work hard and make lots of money you can retire, after you are crippled, wrinkled, paralyzed and old. When you are too tired to do anything, you have made enough money to quit. People quit a lot sooner, unable to realize they have given up, sacrificed their dreams, their love, their life, for something that is nothing. The very essence of existence handed away for something that does not fulfill, does to create, does not explain or give life after death. Money can be buried but it can't follow you, sell your soul, play the guitar, get some money, spend eternity broke.

Have fun, enjoy your vacation, constantly spending, always lending, sometimes sending, and forever trending. Money, the biggest mind fuck of all, happy hunting consumers and entrepreneurs, ignore your families, your passions and the nature of existing, you can make more money if you just focus, keep working, keep aspiring to fail.