Money is a Prison.
Money is a prison, and those who use it are forced to accept the terms that their issuer presents them. Every transaction, every desire, every hoarded or squandered cent reinforces the prison we help our captors build, we just get to choose the specifics of our cell within it. Who domesticated the wild in me? Who made me afraid? Who told me that I must bow before the dollar and worship the hand that shoves its fingers down my throat whenever I speak, the hand that slams me on the ground just for the fun of it, the hand that laughs as I crawl back to it, begging. Do not fool yourself, no one of us has ever owned a dollar, nor owned a car, or a house, these assets are obtained in the game of the casino, and the house always wins.
What you hold so dearly and preciously as your own is not solid. Any whim of the hand and his thugs will pull you out of your home and leave you weeping on the street. The greatest lie capitalism has spread to keep its slaves kneeling is the lie of ownership. You don’t own anything. The hand lets you think that to keep you docile. Power is the only currency, and exercising it is the only ownership. You are nothing but cattle to them, not the cattle our ancestors raised in fields, the cattle they sung songs to as they slept, and prayed over when they slaughtered them, no, you are born and die in a cage, dirty, smelly, dark, alone, feeding tube shoved down your throat, fattening you beyond the limits of your species, cancerous growths and knuckly joints bred for inefficiency so that you would never run, dying far earlier than our predecessors, and dying without ever having sung.
We used to sing, around campfires, in our homes, with our children. When’s the last time you sang? When’s the last time you ran? When’s the last time you stayed up to see the stars? The lights of the city, of our so called evolution past animalistic desires, shrouded the brilliance and vastness of space under a million LEDs. We can’t even see the stars any more. We are not humans, we’re cattle. Engineered for subjugation and consumption. We can’t even speak words we desire. Our social media platforms silence us if we even use words that would wake us up to our imprisonment. We exchanged rape for grape, Jew for Juice Box, suicide for sewer slide. This is the imprisonment of the dollar, that we self censor so that we may have more of it.
And so I feel like a fat cow in a cage too small for me, angry, confused, horny, distraught, disgusted by myself and my environment, but I don’t know what to do. I can’t free myself from money. They have their thugs, I’m afraid of them. I’m afraid of prison, of false charges, of what little the hand has allowed me to have being stripped from me, I am so so angry. I want to hurt someone, something, drag its body around the slaughterhouse, but there is no one to hurt. The enemy is a system built with its captors. To hurt one of its propagators would be to hurt my own kind. I have so much anger with no where to go, and it eats at me, building up in the corner of my vision, quickening my breath, keeping me awake, driving me mad with nothing to do, no one to fight, I am hopeless and I suppose I will die with this anger. It’s killing me.
I would say this is a cry for help, but I don’t want to be comforted, I don’t want to be told to pray more or to trust God more, I want something to do, and no one has something for me to do. I don’t really even know why I continue writing out these feelings, I never feel better, I feel angrier. I cannot ignore it, but I cannot satiate it either. What a bitch. Everyone one of this issues is just bearable enough for me not to do something about it. It’s amorphous enough for me to lie doe again and try to ignore it. The enemy is so big that I duck my head down and live like I don’t notice it, but I do, there’s just nothing I can do about it.
I guess I’m trying to say sorry. Sorry to the slaves outrsystem uses to make me comfortable and satiated, sorry to the people that are suffering that I’m not doin anything to save them, sorry that God is letting them live in bondage, sorry guys, I’m just too comfortable and afraid to do anything about it, so keep working and dying outside of my eyesight. We all have blood on our hands. Existing is a sin, and we’re all guilty. I wish I could live a life that isn’t corrupted by abuse and neglect and oppression, but sorry, I was born in a hospital produced from it, worship in a church built by it, play grab ass on devices your fingers built, and I’ll be buried and forgotten in a plot of land built over even more graves, graves of those we killed to make way for our grand society. I suppose this is the cycle isn’t it. The build up of pressure, then the release. The build up sucks. I just pray the release is coming soon.