I want to be like my ancestors. I want to be proud of what I put into the world. My father built houses. My mother cut hair. I structure sentences in pleasurable ways. These words make me so proud. I am proud of my work. I am proud of the product of my labor. I am like my great distance forefathers: the ones who lived in caves. They were starving. They made weapons and learned to use them. They stalked an animal, they killed an animal, they skinned, cooked and ate it. They used the remains to make more weapons. They would kill more efficiently—with far less effort. Things would get easier and easier. There will be no more effort.
My every day life takes very little effort. And it doesn’t help that I don’t really care. I just pay dues when I’m told. I vote for this guy. I don’t know why. I feel outraged by that one. Whatever. I don’t feel it much anymore.
I don’t know why I’m complaining. There’s nothing to be done. The war for freedom was lost in the 60s. It was a last shot at revolution. We lost.
I’m sorry for saying this, but I can’t back off. I just realized I live in slavery. I’m a willing slave. Fuck. They made me comfortable. I fell for it. I started caring about their dreams for me. My own dreams were crying on the floor.
I apologize for the anger in my first few posts, but
I really need to scream some of this horror off. – TH