On healthy and perverted desire
I sit here at the seat of a resort, occupied by the wealthiest members of society. I talk about the 1% of people who may never be bothered with worries of food, shelter, and other basic comforts. The ones who'll spend their lives on the shores of luxury and opulence. I will describe what I see infront of me:
There are men, whose bellies are so large and comforted, they find an imbalance laying on them. They carry mountain stores of food and water with them wherever they go. They could starve for months and still sustain themselves with the stored energy of their prized fat. Next to these men are women, who do not possess any of the formerly mentioned qualities. Instead, they have substituted all fat for silicone and plastic on their skins. Their lips, cheeks and bosoms are doctored in with a grotesque beauty which is the common standard of their world.
Despite such polarised differences in appearance, the men and women share a great common land upon which they reign. It is the land of the arrogant, the prideful, the perverted. For their faces are stern, brimming with the air of unearned greatness, while their bodies are fetishised, taken to the extremes of perceived appearances. Another quality they share is their love for their electronic devices, which are their only passage to the real world. Their willingness to accumulate is best displayed by their desire to capture the moment, which is an object best served as a still photograph to display to their peers. If they could, they would capture all the oxygen in the world and store it in large oxygen cylinders. The beauty of the moment is absent to them. Or rather, it is like a fish which must be railed in to be eaten with large amounts of salt and garlic, but nothing else. One final commonality that I will mention is their absolute lack for communication and conversation. Because why would one question the depth of life when their bellies are constantly occupied with champagne, wine and steaks?
I hold no anger towards these lost souls. Only empathy and an undying compassion for their ignorance. For they find joy in a boat occupied with holes, and their solution is to stitch notes of money to these unending leakages. There is no permanent solution, other than to dive and swim in the sea of tranquility. That would take courage, stamina and a sturdy love for discomfort. In other words, a qualities which cannot be purchased with a credit card.
These people are not my people, not my tribe. They do not feel the breeze as I do. The beauty of the ocean does not bring water to their eyes like it does to mine. The Ocean for them is a tank filled with delicious shrimp, prawns and caviar, and salt for dressing perhaps. My throat is heavy as I write, because I see what they may never see. I see love everywhere, and I desire to commune with the mountains, which they record, the trees, which they ignore, and land which they cannot worship. Lastly, I sometimes wonder who is more lost. Them, for following the ways of the wealthy, or me, for entertaining them by participating in their golden charade?
