A window into my world

There are times when writing about a journey or experience is like a window into another world as it can lead to places and moments that may be personal and unique but also cathartic as those well meaning moments can sometimes only be understood after the event has passed or long gone and in the reflection of after thought its purpose and reason may just be stepping stones for those who take the time to read or follow through these passages of text that somehow frame our human experience in what we all come to understand and know as life.

Homeless on the Streets of Plenty

"Buy what we sell you, talk like we talk, but stay away from us"

Industrialized globalization spreading gigantic tentacles through media, arms, capitalist philosophies and ideologies, obvious and subliminal to every far flung corner of the world, reaching, touching everyone and anyone with access to media and social media. Superpowers drunk on the idea of ‘super’ and ‘power’ controlled and owned by the ‘Shadow Emperors’ who remain nameless and faceless but very much in control of the strings as their puppets lead the dance whilst the dancers practice their ritualized behaviors programed into them right at inception.

Be like us, become like us, but keep away from us.

And you wonder why everybody’s mother, son and daughter wants to escape to the land of dreams and home of the brave.

Of course the home of the brave has now been replaced by the home of the money worshippers selling warship ideologies in the temples of life. Scattered on every street corner amidst the drudgery of its citizens reaching for the stars that define their worth and value in the things they own and the things that own them. Like a putrefying stench that everyone can smell, but no one can do anything about as the cities continue to grow and devour its own neon festered swathe, covering up the dark from the ugly as the earth weeps from the abandon.

Social media platforms that once glittered with the jewels of newly discovered people and sentiment amidst the grasping of cloud illusions that our global village somehow conjures up idyllic contact with folks we have never met and whose opinions and likes we become dependent upon to further nourish our dwindling selves of worth and value. Like some Armageddon movie the survivors who venture away from the illusion of popularity come to understand that the journey was fraught with the bile of other acid reflexes regurgitated from the brain matter or what was left of them before the time of ‘social media’.

Keyboard warriors with endless opinions hiding behind their satellite masks brandishing their weapons of glib cliche spreading and reposting the same old populist gossip that somehow keeps the weary, worn out and the dumb, dumbed down.

‘Freedom of information’ doesn’t mean ‘freedom of change from ideology’.

The masters know that all information can be controlled via bots and programs like elevator music that becomes removed from music form. We may recognize the tune, but the music is long gone, reprogrammed into structures and forms that control how we feel, act and behave.

Amidst this madness of our social evolution the warship temples and the money worshippers continue to embalm their heroes and electors to the thrones of the kingdom handing the already privileged keys that now have access to the souls of all men and women whether they are believers or non-believers who become accessories wittingly and unwittingly to the dictators of the timeline in their continuance of their historical charge in ensuring that all citizens are now microchipped with their dog tags of servitude in the global village of illusion.

On the corners of empty streets deep in the cracks of sidewalks lay the fallen, helpless like the dinosaurs in the sun waiting for the new day that one day will come and release them from the abject poverty of opportunity and circumstance, knowing that they once used to be human beings like everyone else.

Someone’s son, mother and child, they may have known life and love, Christmases and other festive joys, that celebrated their worth and value now lay like ghostly reminders of their fall from grace as every winters breath strips a little more from the spirit of their beings until finally they have become just footprints in the dust of yesteryear and no one will have ever known their names, worth or of their passing on the streets of plenty.



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