They Say That I’m A Dreamer…

Sometimes, on some days, I wish that I didn’t want more out of life.

Sometimes I wish I could be content to know I am doing what society says I should be doing. (Be a good girl. Go to school. Get a job. Pay your bills. Have a family. Pay your bills. Work some more. Pay your bills. Retire. Pay your bills. Die. Pay your bills.) I wish I could go buy myself the latest and hottest pair of high heels and feel like I made it in life. I wish I could look at my bank account and smile because I can afford to do things that others cannot. I wish I could go on Instagram and inflate my ego by taking pictures of my material possessions.

I also wish … that I didn’t feel things so deeply. I wish I could live in a world with walls so high that they protect my self-interest with excellent efficacy. I wish I could look past all the horrible, heart-breaking things that are happening thousands of miles away just because I can’t see how they directly (or immediately) affect me. I wish I could let the weight of the world off my shoulder, and focus my energy instead into finding a husband so I can be a good little housewife and mother. I wish having a job, being able to pay my bills, going out occasionally, opening my eyes every morning, and being able to function every day was enough to make me feel like I’ve done my part as a child of this universe. And that I could die happily knowing I lived my life in my own little world where all the bills were paid, everything was copacetic, and no workplace duty went undone.

But … only sometimes.

I mean, it gets pretty exhausting being a feeler, you know? Always seeing things for more than what they present themselves to be. Always seeing people for more than who they are. Always feeling like there’s something I can, and should, do to help. It’s exhausting always feeling like there is more that I should be doing every day to contribute to this Earthly existence. It’s exhausting feeling like the life I live is mirroring mere existence.

And it’s even more exhausting feeling like I have no effin’ idea how to fix it.

I’m not OK with dumbing my life down to an 8-hour-a-day sit-down party underneath someone’s fluorescent lights. I’m not OK with being sheltered from the outside world for 40 hours a week only to sit in front of a screen. I am not a piece of furniture. I am not a tree that is meant to be rooted in one place in order to survive. I am not a robot that is built to exist based on functionality alone. I am a human being. I am a living, breathing creature that shouldn’t have to succumb to two hours of intense exercising per day to supplement for the fact that my existence has been resigned to an office chair. (Imagine telling another animal to sit still at a desk for eight hours, and then treating it twice a month to a piece of paper as recompense. Then, watch the diseases pile up long enough to say “OK. Maybe you do need to be more mobile. Go to the gym for a few hours. That should do it. But get back to work tomorrow. No days off unless I approve them.”)

I shouldn’t have to eat any of my meals in a moving vehicle.
I shouldn’t have to ask permission to be sick or to travel.
I shouldn’t have to wake up every morning to a loud, repetitive noise.
I shouldn’t have to rush out of my bed every morning to make sure I’m in my seat in time to spend the next 8+ hours doing nothing that future humans will ever thank me for.

And I shouldn’t have to accept that as my life, or suffer the consequences of not being able to afford the price of waking up every morning with a shelter over my head and some access to sustenance.

I’m really not trying to be ungrateful. But my God; I just want to be a human again.

Sometimes I just want to wake up slowly, with no place to rush off to, and decide on my own how I want to spend my days. I want to be able to do something every day that other people can benefit from in more ways than just monetarily; help people who feel like no one cares about them–like no one is paying attention. I want to lay down under the stars at night and fall asleep to the rhythm of the crickets chirping. Wake up in a new place every now and then, eager to take on the challenges that nature puts before me. Interact and share wisdom with real life people I may never see again, and learn all about their culture and their existence before I go. Judge my days by the moon and the sun, and my age by how far I can walk before I get weary.

I don’t want to put my life, value, existence, or well being into the hands of another human being.

But, that is exactly what I have done. That’s what we have all done. We’ve become like puppets on a string, yielding to the movements made by someone “greater” than us who has their hands so far above our heads we couldn’t even reach it if we tried. One way or another, it’s become OK to have someone else’s hand in our cookie jar. And they are not only robbing us our cookies when we aren’t looking, but also deciding how many cookies we can eat and how often. And it has virtually become inescapable, this type of control. “We the people” are, at large, OK with this. And because of that, because I am mostly alone in my desire to do more, be more … here I am. Writing to you from my desk, where I’ve spent my Tuesday.

And another week is just scaling by as I sit here, behind this screen, under these fluorescent lights, wondering how in the hell can I get my 40 hours back.

One Response to “They Say That I’m A Dreamer…

  • Anonymous
    3 years ago

    One of my main goals in life is to get my 40 hours back…

    George W. Carver is responsible for the forty hour work week, before he told Henry Ford how to mass produce cars with the power-plant concept the average work day for most Americans was six hours. I don’t think he realized what would result from showing a capitalist how to maximize production with limited costs…

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