we are all enslaved
we are all enslaved. most of us on this earth — by poverty of circumstance. born into one or more of triple tyrannies: unjust societies, violent families, broken wars; we live merely to survive: for crumbs of bread and money to send home, if there still is a home. we carry on, carry ourselves, carry baggage like stones, like Prometheus — carry them up to our deaths.
or, if we’re lucky enough to have been born into safe countries with deep pockets, into families who cared enough, (even if they said: i fed you and clothed you for eighteen years; you are still not enough, never enough.) — we, the people of this free, bright world, we grow up and old to walk the well-lit, well-beaten path, we clock in clock out, wear our bodies out to find ourselves, at the end of the road, unsure if we’ve ever truly lived —
so we the poor are enslaved, and we the privileged, too, are enslaved. by the prison of our own minds — by our fears and addiction to things: to status, to approval, and feeds — which we scroll like pumping iv drugs into our veins — for doses of cheap escape. and instead of finding, seeking what it means to live a true life, we live the life templated, pre-scripted — by our culture, our parents, by the instagrammed voices in our brains — on what is success, what is happiness? what is a life? and why don’t we forget about death.
enslaved by our comfort, our fear of change, by a poverty of imagination — we live like dogs with leashes in our jaws, while the rest of the world tries not to starve. we who have the opportunity prefer not to awake. we who could be running like madmen towards any mountain of our desire, we prefer to stay safe. we who have the means have not the courage to ask: who am I? what do I truly want? and how do I find my way?