Another day slips through my fingers like grains of sand gliding through the gaps. The feel of silkiness and warmth, the sand on a summer’s day. On a beach, looking and dreaming to the ocean and beyond. The days like those granules, silica falling through loose fingers, smooth to touch while heavy and slow to walk upon. The recurring thought.  I’m caught. In a prison. Gnaws away inside. Locked inside. A gaol. Keeps ankles shackled and a lack of courage assures me breaking these rusty irons is impossible. Trapped in this nightmare. In some strange land which I’m told is normal and appropriate but  this feeling churns. The base of my spine crawls. Unconvinced. Is it as it is made out to be? Inside it crawls. Everything feels wrong. Inside. Like an insect peering through its black glass eyes. The world spins is nothing wrong? Am I just crazy or does everyone appear without a face? A mask? It crawls. Plastic moulds. Human feature. Expressions rehearsed and lines mimed. Moving. Are there strings attached? To limbs? It crawls. Moving with a faint and barely perceptible jerkiness. An unseen puppeteer? Maybe. Maybe it’s just that sand, sands of time crawling from year to year. Am I an alien? Crawling. Amongst puppets or am I totally unaware? Have I died? Am I living as ghost? In this world of strange affairs? Maybe it’s just that sand, sand caught in my stare.

But if I’m real how do I know I’m real? If I’m real then am I free? If I’m free then how do I know I’m free? It feels wrong. Yet I stumble along. Uncertain. Alone. Perhaps it’s just a dream and soon I’ll awake. Will the waking world feel more real? More right? Or will it be the same. Will I still be caught in this lair? If I’m awake, will the world then fall asleep? Do I just pretend. Pretend that I’m alike. Those puppets. And walk with the same blank stare?

Maybe it’s just me. Me with that blank stare. Maybe it’s just that sand, sand blowing in my ear. Then why these questions? Does no one care? The disparity of want. Need. Filling the world with greed. It’s wrong. It’s right. Should I drink Sprite? Coke and cola. What about the fauna? Water. Water. Everywhere. 5 dollar container imported from over there. Consumer. Consumer. Everywhere. But not enough to eat? Does it feel fair? Rich Dad. Poor Dad. What’s on TV Dad? Media. Media. Everywhere. But the story still untold. Maybe it’s just been put on hold.

Codral. Cold and flu. Just say NO! Sudafed to clear your head. Meth lab and you’ll be waiting. Waiting for the Fed. To knock. Knock. Knock. Who’s there? Why it’s 20 years for Suda-ephedrine bought from Terry White just next door. Right. Wrong. Still a little long for singing the Codral song. Soldier On. Soldier On. But don’t get on. Money. Money.  Don’t worry. Terry’s got his money. From grim crim who just committed a big sin. But he’ll still be fed. But what about Pfizer? Still making bread. You’ll be glad to still have a clear head.

Right. Wrong. No matter. We still sing our song. Buy. Buy. Sell. Sell. You may believe it. You may not. Just be careful with what you sell. Hell. High Water. The dream. Is it what it seems? Buy. Buy. Sell. Sell. Carbon. Emission.

Was this our vision or just our prison.

Category : Rants

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