I feel ill at ease among the chosen and the washed

I feel ill at ease among the chosen and the washed, the bright intellects who’ve trod the safe paths of tradition and formal learning.

I feel no need to be exalted or remembered, but likewise, I no longer wish to get a tattoo, bust heads in a mosh pit, shoot meth or heroin, be wasted, or find endless entertainment in lowbrow things.

I love highbrow things, I love cheap beer and good beer.
I love whiskey more than it loves me.
I love good, shining souls, and I know them when I see them, though they may not always recognize me these days.

I feel compelled to be good for the sake of the stage of life in which I must fulfill my householder duties, but inside, I will always be the kid when camping who was happy to eat cold hot dogs and chili and sleep in his tighty-whities in the dirt by the fire.

I feel compelled to sit and write using the most current technology available for the writer, but I would be just as happy scratching random thoughts on the back of napkins with a toothpick dipped in ketchup or refried beans.

I wake up every day sensing that I live in a bubble,
and the kind of bubble needed to keep me alive will burst,
and humanity will crawl in dirt and blood and use the same for ink for awhile,
before adjusting to a more sustainable, dignified way of living in earth berm homes wearing robes and eating simple bread and porridge with a little juice and tea on weekends.

I love to sneak over to websites that describe the lifestyles of people who burn through in a day what it takes me a year to spend.

I admire the notion that there are many people now around the world who can pick and graze at a tray full of expensive dead animals, and toss millions of pounds of the meat they cared not to eat.

Such people are helping us keep the torch alive that we held back in days when the earth was flat and the firmaments held the chaos from rushing in, and we could believe that the gods could endlessly dine on fancy, fatted things with impunity.

Such folks are helping us to continue to dream that we might just inevitably tap into a wealth of alternate universes, where one universe, for example, is made of 100% caviar, offering almost an endless supply to the fancy chosen few.

My sad little lifestyle is hardly sustainable, and so it makes me feel so much better to see that there are those who live in unimaginable states of conspicuous consumption.

I can rest easier knowing that while my carbon footprint and general glut of consumption is far greater than 90% of the world, 10% of the world’s population consumes 10,000% more than I ever will in a lifetime, in one year.

I can sleep well, knowing that their contributions to the economy are trickling down in the form of tiny little crumbs that will eventually land on my doorstep, before I nibble and toss the micro-particles of crumbs on to someone downstream who is buried under my clothes and food and trash and shit.

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