The quite moments when we shared some bitter coffee and talked over the sour reality of what lay beyond the end of our street still haunts me although almost a decade has past. These are the moments that should be cherished, for they mark a lapse in participation of our own demise. But man I’m tired, I’m tired of not being able to enjoy the things that make this city great, I’m tired of falling a sleep on the way to work, on the way home, during dinner, while I’m talking with my wife, I’m tired of being exhausted and I’ve exhausted the solutions. I once read a thing, some kind of attempt at revolutionary inspiration type thing, that ended with the question, ‘what would we if we really chose what we did with our years’? These days the time I have to wonder is running away from me, but those few precious seconds i manage to hold onto each month return answers I can’t decipher, each time I think I have it, I know I’m wrong. If you think you know, you don’t.
Alarm clocks are here to do gods work, because idle hands are the devils play thing. Things, fuck things!
No seriously though, what would you do if you chose your own life, what would you do if you had a choice what to do everyday? I know cause I did it, I dropped out the best I could, I lived on my own terms for as long as I could stand it, I payed the price of a sense of diluted freedom, and found my own way back to the slavery of participation.
Just dropout man, its all that we have left.
Each day runs to a sound track of alarm clocks and commuter trains as the dialogue becomes more meaningless and the colour scheme turns to grey scale. There is only a wall, inches thick, that divide us from our neighbours, other beings that relate to the same treadmill on which we waste our time running, wearing down the “souls” of our shoes which will need replacing. Yeah they are close, but we might as well be wolds apart, because I’m too tired and pissed with my boss and that asshole that bumped into me on the train to exchange pleasantries. This is us being kept apart, this is us becoming less human, until the words themselves taste of poison in my mouth. This is the reality of an occupation, something to keep us from talking, to keep us from imagining.
I don’t hate people, and I don’t hate this world, but being reduced to a commodity isn’t really living is it? So let’s hang out, drink some of that black, black liquid anxiety and try forget about what we have to offer the highest bidder.
Shifty O'malley 