Burn This

I want to start at the beginning but cue Anais Nin, ‘Where is the beginning? The beginning of memory or the beginning of pain?’ I have a fear of diminutives from being imprisoned too long by these walls of scarcity. I only buy things in bulk now, only accept them in bulk, it is how myths are built, I call mine the illusion of limitlessness. My minimalism has become a choice to bar it from becoming a slavery. If I am vegan it is because I have fathomed in the depths of experience that rationality is a luxury for those who have transcended mere survival, the rest are just animals, craving , hulking, stalking, preying for their next meal.

I am redacting my alphabets, my numbers; you and I do not speak the same language, and I see that you do not make the same calculations when pulling out notes and letting coins fall out of the palms of your hand. You have not yet meditated on the bottoms of saucepans or seen a hand write on the wall that you are denied entry, that you are non grata, that your mere humanity is not sufficient to grant you a roof and a meal; you have yet to posit to the heavens, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabacthani?‘ In this world given at no fee yet existing within it those who claim ownership, you will be taught that to own nothing but the flesh on your bones and the skin on your shins is to be nothing.

You really are no better than a stray dog you see. They will kick you with the same licence and when they are looking to offer token adherence to the sentiments recorded in their good books, they will throw you a morsel and claim their Christianity, wear their badges of charity then leave you wallowing in your gutter. They have done their part, you are not their problem. If you have nothing, you are nothing, you are nobody with nothing and nothing will redeem you until you have something.

You still have your abstractions, your notions that there exists a hierarchy in the order of life and mankind is supreme. I was like you once, cocooned in naivete, paying homage to the idea that it means something to be a human being, to be a person. That notion has been scraped off my skin with sand paper. I have come to believe we are all dogs, the stray ones, not the pampered kind and when given the chance, when you slip, there will be those who will be only too ready to remind you.

It will not matter, I promise you, what gifts and powers the gods marked on your forehead with a scar, you must buy opportunity, you must buy into your dreams and without the currency you will die from your struggle to live only to be buried in the unmarked grave of persons of no consequence. To be poor is to break under the weight of a cross everyone assumes you carved. I spit on the face of their suggestions on how to dig myself out of this pit without rope, without ladder, without shovel. They are burying me under their self-help books, their ‘well meanng advice’. They have made me their show-mole, burrowing under the dirt beneath their feet looking for the diamonds they have marked on the blank maps they gift me. It is their hypocrisy that will be my guillotine.

No pretty works of art here: El Poet, ‘They paint pictures worth a thousand words but I give you a thousand words, get the picture?’

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