Crazy Pills

I feel like I am choking on spoonfuls of sanity that the world keeps trying to cram down my throat, even though I am sputtering gurgles of objection. There's no time to slow down and think, there is no value in that. My only value is in the amount my my soul's juices I allow to be squeezed from my body into another man's cup. I am lapped up thirstily then wrung out again like a sponge that had buckets of a structure, not of my own design, dumped onto me since adolescence- filling me until I am only seen as the sum of the things that have been stuffed inside of me.

I walk around waiting for a knowing look in the eyes of those around me but everyone seems to believe that this is how it should be done. Keep time, don't delay, mind the schedule for the calendar and clock are the Bible of the new world. I feel like I don't belong here, like things are rushing by me so quickly and if I could just step off this path for a moment I might be able to figure it out. I'm afraid that someone has severely underestimated the value of my time- if you'll see here, it says that I am selling it at $25 an hour and I should be happy for that. Imagine what overtime bonuses will be provided! 

But if I can just slow down, I think you'll see that what I am is more than what's been stuffed into me. I am a sponge and I can inhale galaxies. I can spew more than the regurgitation of another man's ideals. I can release more into the world than a function that could be performed by any cog that turns and clicks and spins because it is caught within the teeth of other gears, all who spin for an engine that is unknown to them. I can hear the rhythm of the ocean as the fishes scales play melodies that only I can see, but I can tell you all about it if you would just slow down a second, if we could both sit down and rest here for a while. I can tell you about the old man with paper thin skin, who dare not let the dust mites in, for when he does he knows he'll sneeze and countries away will feel the breeze. I can tell you of spirals in the Northern Lights- a battle of color as each one fights to gain the most supremacy against the backdrop of a starry sea, not realizing that no one hue is what boatloads of people came to see, but it is the war itself that makes them worthy of such a visibility.

If we could just take a minute to renegotiate the selling of my lifely rate, I think you'll see there's something here that doesn't quite make sense. You've profited dearly from my only true commodity, the scarcity of which can't begin to be fathomed- the likes of what I'm selling cannot be bought anywhere else. You see, every second is unique? One of a kind? It can never be bought back. It will never be seen again. It's like trying to calculate the power in a single atom, one of which seems so insignificant in stature but when you cut it open, entire universes spill out. If you leave it whole to find its way it could become part of the air we breathe or the water we drink, or the crimson pigment in a drop of blood or its own moon or sun or stars that spread dust that plant seeds that become their own kind of people on their own distant rock. You see? I think my life is more valuable than what you have decided is my "going" rate but I'm going much too quickly to open this debate. I'm afraid I have to go. I'm running late.