Hell of a Higher Wage.

If only I could make it out of here and find stability in another job, a more respectable, better paying job where I could work on my insane debt, I think I would feel okay. I could tell people where I worked without shame, my parents would not worry about me and I would not have to worry about making them worry. I would hopefully not work in this backed-up toilet of a town, either. I just need to find a respectable way to make money. So many problems would be solved.

That’s all society is about, after all: get a stable job, pay your bills, retire if you can and enjoy what you can out of life before your meat machine breaks down and you’re forced to evacuate. Then, you know, reincarnation and the whole shitty cycle starts over.

Go ahead. Procure some meaning out of that bullshit. I can’t.

Still, it seems to be what I have so far not managed to accomplish and something I need to in order to feel better about myself. Still, if it were all said and done I think I’d still hate my life, perhaps even more, but I could hate my life with a thicker wallet.

This is the sane way to live? This is what it means to be on the right track? Not substance, but image?

I hate this. I hate it all. I am bitter, feel little hope that will get better, but my life needs to change. Soon.

I need hell of a higher wage.

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Rebel Without a Way.

So long, yet still struggling
with the world
around me, with myself.

Reaching for the stars,
quicksand at the kneecaps.
Head full, pockets empty.
with holes inside,
little graves in malnourished fabric
dug by stubbornly hopeful fingers.

It makes no sense,
how money is everything.
It makes no sense
how I can’t seem to fucking
make any.

Dreams aplenty,
intermittent ambition,
a short time that shines bright
just to give definition
to the darkness surrounding,
consuming.

This cage we created is filthy.
This game we play, a contract born into,
is unethical, unsustainable.
It kills me, needing to adapt,
shames me that try as I might,
I can’t.

I feel filthy.

Flubbercheque.

Constant debt is endless dependence. Independence is not secured until the check has cleared. Guilt is emotional debt. It is an emotional sense of indebtedness to someone or something, but what serves as the currency and what is the exchange rate? We keep trying until we receive signs that we fixed what we had broken, but those signs can come from the creditor or the debtor. It is until we feel, or we feel certain as possible that that which we are indebted to feels, that we have, even when factoring in interest, provided sufficient compensation.

You are but a blind man tossing gravel at a presumed target without any notion of what would constitute auditory feedback suggesting you hit the target, operating on the faith that you will know the sound when you hear it.

Constant guilt is endless dependence. Individuality is never secured until the check stops bouncing, and this bitch is made of flubber. Emotional exchange is unregulated by an officially-sanctioned and imposed monetary system and instead left in a social climate of trade that is essentially free of collective or even mutual agreement on what constitutes fair exchange. This is in turn exacerbated by the presumptuous beliefs of most that everyone does or at least should share their sense of values.

We are borne into emotional contracts through social circumstance, in other words, never free to read and agree or disagree to the conditions, and we built the wombs for countless others to be pushed out into the world of indebitedness to us, none of whom were born free to read and agree or disagree to the conditions we etched into the stone cold cap of our hearts.

We Play a Game of Debt and Greed.

How does one measure the success of a society?

Is it by how much it can produce? By how much money is in the hands of whom and what it is they do with that money?

It appears that quite a few have adopted these skewed spectacles; that some find it practical or perhaps only fashionable to frame the aim of civilization this way.

Or perhaps that’s rash. Perhaps I should only say that it makes no sense to me. What does make sense to me is this idea that the general biological and psychological health, education and liberty of the members of the given society is of central importance. After all, there is more than enough produced globally, its just the rationing that is the problem. To blame? It would seem reside in the fact that the central drive of the cultural game we play is to divide the distribution of resources through the circulation of money.

Money is just the medium by which we gain access to resources in this game we play.

Every leaflet a fancy, officially-recognized regional IOU to exchange for an ambiguous product or service of a constantly varying value set by the whims of the seller, which is nearly always relative to the hunger of the wolves, to the value those packs of blood-lusting consumers attach to the given product or service. Values in many (dare I say most?) cases set by trends generated and propagated by cultural conduits such as media and popular culture, themselves owned by IOU Gurus.

Its just a game. And it’s a shitty game. We can decide to switch to a better game, live a different way, but we don’t.

“This is just the way it is,” I always heard, “the way its always been, the way it’ll always be.”

What, are we afraid
of those at the top,
who own the things
and pull the strings
that could lift you up
or cut you loose,
all depending, of course,
on their mood?

Or is it
that we envy them?
Strive to emulate,
aspire to be them?