Friday, February 25, 2005

Goddamn my conscience

There's something I want to write about. Something I *need* to RANT about. And I can't do it, because it involves somebody else, a very personal situation, and money.

Even if that person remained nameless, the nature of the situation leaves them easily identified to anyone with half a brain.

So I will refrain from ranting about it. Will refrain from writing about it in general. And instead, I'll have to sit and stew on it, let it burn in my mind and knot my guts.

Because I hate money. Or, at least, the strain and stresses that money brings. Are financial reasons the first or second most common inspiration for suicide? God knows, they must be one or the other in a society bred by capitalism.

I have a dream one day of leave civilization, and finding an abandoned plot of land somewhere, if not undiscovered then at least somewhere that people have forgotten about, and start a farm. Go luddite. Drop the computers and the cell phones and the iPods and all the trappings of technology that only fill voids and add nothing of any actual substance to our lives. I'll bring a manual typwriter with me and pound out ranting manifestos. But I won't send bombs to anyone -- that, I promise. That's rude.

It'll be a commune to, and anyone who wants to come and help work the farm is welcome to. And when the work is done we'll hold hands and sing songs around the campfire, and we'll try to remake society out of a better mould, and we'll probably even almost succeed until someone gets a better idea into their heads, and a little feud starts, which eventually breaks into an all-out war that will leave my poor communal farm littered with broken bodies and soaked in the pints of blood spilled in the needless conflict.

Maybe the commune isn't such a great idea after all.

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