Chronic Injuries of Money Lost and Found

Yes, another rant on capitalism.

We live in a morally perverse society, endlessly fascinated by the epyllions of wealth, regurgitating the herculean narratives of the wealthy. All of us, to varying extents, pick at the scabs of our voyeuristic obsessions to mimic the rites, rituals, and routines of the rich.

The stories of monetary success that have been shoved down our gullets, quite simply, are addictions.

However, the addiction to making money that stretches beyond earthly realms – literally, considering the billionaire boys’ club’s race into space – leave chronic injuries in our bones. These bruises, tears, wounds, and abrasions are pieces of all of us shaved off, piece by piece, for the sake of the abbreviated world – somehow always short on time: whose time, we cannot yet know, maybe not ever.

There is an invisible clock somewhere, giant, and loudly ticking, keeping time for all of us, but only when it comes to making money.

The planet is long past redemption, so why not sell some metal straws and pump the cash into the giant clock whose hands seem to get thicker and faster every day?

The capitalist world is a contraction. You know how sometimes writing ‘it is’ instead of ‘it’s’ detriments the power of a sentence? In the same way, for instance, a fat body or a late sleeper, spills outside of this tightly lined contraction. In the process, we lose sleep over unanswered emails and skip meals to make way for a more abbreviated worker – not a person or an individual or a human being – just this – a worker.

How do we balance justice with efficiency? Are we looking for justice at all, or are we only concerned with production? In a world of money-making skills, morality cannot be stretched to cover the confusion of meritocracy.

The cover of money, the dues to your name, or those that are yet to come from behind invisible paywalls, are effectual superimpositions on the narrative of meritocracy, which, is a false sheen of where we’re headed, where we should be headed instead, and where we should start our journey all over again.

There’s horses’ blinders, and then there’s making money in a world that only understands the universal language, not borne of love rather of violence – that of marked bills to your name.