"You're a Slave to Money, Then You Die"

Well, yes of course I want it. How can I not? How can I sit here in Waterloo, Ontario, writing for a university magazine without it? I can hypothesize about fleeing, but it is ubiquitous. Run naked into the woods to escape it. The thought of being free – free from the desire, the work, the reward, the desire, the work, the reward – is tantalizing, but a fiction. Your talent is a lovely cog that fits plainly into the machine of your life. We’re built into this, what could anyone else expect? Oh yes, it’s evil and it’s a trap and it’s a corruptly spun lie to convince you of your need – but we obey, and we fear falling outside the blueprint.
Let’s just ignore this thought. Perhaps we can exist and function alongside it, and not be defined by it. Let’s do other things. Let’s paint and act and scrapbook and have children and photograph and start working out to find our purpose.
I need some money for paint.



Post a Comment

Copyright © a contemplation (Emily Jones) 2013. All rights reserved.