| Conquest |
12-31-2015 03:53 AM |
Money is a predator's tale—the allegory of the cave; its shadows are puppets of violence; it is the greatest act of witchcraft known to mankind. It does nothing, it feeds nothing, it clothes nothing—it shelters no one & it never has. Capitalism is its most powerful spell; the wicked get richer, dangling phony pats on the back in the form of numbers by some self-appointed teacher cheering his students with corporate packs of stock stickers & cutesy faces poorly drawn in red ink.
The cruel sell you their fake kindness in the form of enslavement; the flipside is that they will relent from their natural state of abusing, torturing, & dismissing you in any shape or form … Verbally, your reputation, a letter of recommendation, a friendship—an invitation to a cookout you always attended but always felt a facade but couldn't put your finger on it. Ordinary time keepers who report to employees and watch minutes go by call themselves managers; they pay themselves more for being mediocre, and use their inner prowess to construct demeanors always hinting at a jurassic carousel of small talk & emptiness spinning in circles around you looking like liberty, but tasting like death.
Most money is swindled in strip clubs, on prostitutes/celebrities, drugs, and whatever other worthless palace of plaster that will strike your fancy in the kingdom of fools; you can sometimes enter, but never dance or you may fall and poke holes in the faux marble.
Whatever capitalism is—and it is that which you've all been warned about … The love of things. The love of mammon; the root of all evil: Both "capital" & "ism"—the pursuit of stuff. Only love is the true currency, and you've all been duped; stupefied, and seduced by professional actors posing as Forbe's fancy & well-assessed. But we all have experiences, ideas—thoughts and things … I suppose if you wear a business suit, stand on a podium, command enough attention & carry billions of manmade worthless bills that only God knows how you've acquired, which may or may not (and almost never) have anything to do with working hard—and you drive around in fancy cars … I suppose if you build a mansion so big and call the modest ugly, and find a common burlesque dancer like Beyonce with a broadway voice you can streamline into beats—and dangle the hookers on strings of streams of useless bits, using carefully constructed language & common ideas … Somehow—somewhere … You'll rally enough listeners to worship at your doorstep hoping a little bit of your grace will spill off onto them, and they will be noticed.
But it isn't real—and what one man gives you almost always has an agenda. The world is full of reptiles and spiders crawling around; they want you to believe that somebody somewhere did the math and 9-5 is a formula that came down from some scientific shrine of God—full proof and making some bit of sense. They want you to think that building someone else's dreams cares about your own, and that time wasted is time gained; if you manage to make some money, consider yourself a lucky one. There is no guarantee, and what you think you see—is but a dream.
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