The World Is An Alien Landscape

Only the rich get to live near the sky, just as only the rich can afford to fly...

Driving the car down the vacant gravel road, hands gripping the steering wheel, fingers wrapped around the leather cover, as the slight pings of errant gravel attack the bottom of the vehicle, as though keeping erratic time to the song of the road beneath.

The fog frames the frost that clings for life to the branches of the trees that line the road, every so often coming into view, making them appear as glimmering white bushes.

It's as though traveling through a foreign scape - unworldly, alien even.

Suddenly, it all becomes quite strange...

Are we really from this planet or are we simply colonizing it?

Is this what it would be like to travel on a newly discovered planet in the beginning stages, before the metropolis?

Before the sky is a staggering of competing towers, stretched heavenward at though competing for sunlight like crowded weeds overtaking a vacant lot?

Not so very long ago... not in a parent's lifetime and maybe not in a grandparent's but in a great-grandparent's time... they were carving trails through long prairie wool as they weaved their way across the plains in long caravans of wagons, cattle and horses.

Settlers.

It was only within a few hundred years, maybe three generations at most.

Searching to build a small cabin on an expanse of land to help build a new nation.

Every gravel road begins as a dirt trail just as every highway starts as hard top. It's symbiotic.

It starts not with the first one to walk someplace, but rather to the next, the one that follows, and the one that follows him and so on. That's makes the path. The path becomes the gravel road and the gravel road becomes the hard top. It all ends up highway.

Small houses that once dotted the landscape become large ones, those large ones become apartments. Apartments become towers.

Towers become the horizon.

"Only the rich get to live near the sky, just as only the rich can afford to fly."

The last vestiges of the untamed world are still within view of the gravel road, but it will only be the within lifetime of those that live after this, that will never know it even existed.

Enter metropolis.

Stack them like poker chips into grand towers filled with hundreds of tiny little cubes that pass as homes.

Pack them into boxes like ornaments used for their purpose and then put away until they are next required.

Stored, neat and tidy, one on top of one on top of one.

The rich on the top floor.

The only place you can still see the sky.

A stop sign comes into view and interrupts this dystopian daydream.

Right turn from gravel to hard top...

Just like the evolution.

The song changes, it starts to hum, as the snow replaces the gravel metronome.

Not far from work now. Just a few more miles.

Back to the grind, daily.

How did slavery become becoming?

They talk of abolishing slavery but they simply replaced it, with everyone. Yet, even when slaves were permitted, the owners themselves too were slaves.

Enslaved by a notion of wealth that only exists in a banker's ledger.

Then, at least, there was a value based on gold. Now it's is fictional. Based on nothing, worth nothing, still just as valued.

Still just as slaved for...

A black ball of fur and razor-blades leapfrogs and careens across the road - a cat!

Brakes applied, chaos averted.

All is well.

The fog, though lifting, now sits as a blanket creating a vision of a road cutting through the clouds.

"Only the rich get to live near the sky, just as only the rich can afford to fly."

As though driving the long road to cloud city to see the Queen.

Up and up and up into the clouds where the rich people went.

It really is a marvel how thoughts can just rattle around a head like a rock in a tin can, making no sense but noise.

Inside, to yourself, it sounds as it should, but it's really quite chaotic. All over the place, as it were, in terrible need of an editor.

The town begins to explode into view through the fog as though the sky was opening in revelation.

Left turn, right turn, left.

There to the shackle, there to the chain.

Animals remember things.

A dog knows where it buried it's bone. Sentient being animals then are, yet they punch no clock, pay no tax.

Their master that pays - their master the slave.

They are the ones that are really living.

Do what they want, when they want, or don't.

Sleep, eat, outside, inside and about.

Made in the shade.

Open the car door, step out.

Unlock the door to the store and step inside...

Because only the rich don't live to survive.

"Only the rich get to live near the sky, just as only the rich can afford to fly."

#randomchaos #thingswethinkabout #talkingtoyourself #happinessinslavery #daydrunkdaydreams #theworldisanalienlandscape #seasonsintheabyss