Some Times, I Wonder
I wonder.
Some times, I wonder.
Some times, I wonder... about how things might have been, had I been born long ago, or born long from now.
This is such a strange, bizarre world.
I was at a restaurant this evening, in the lavatory, washing my hands, and I thought to myself, "This is surreal. Here I am, an animal, in a box, rubbing his hands together, with some sort of slippery stuff, that came out of a white sort of box, stuck to a flat surface, with a white rock like thing catching water, that is flowing in a smooth column out of a shiny bent thing... This is not natural. This is not normal."
Such thoughts occur to me, from time to time. What a utterly concocted world we find ourselves in, surrounded by things built by others, and so unlike everything else in the world.
If I were born only a dozen millenia ago, I would be walking, feet touching the ground, seeing the plants, and hearing the animals.
Life would be all around me, all the time.
People, family, would also be all around me, almost all of the time.
My language would be different. Being part of the world, it would have to be. In fact, I doubt that I would draw a line between myself and the world, at least not in the way that I do today.
My feet would touch the ground, my skin would touch the air, my hands would touch the plants, and everything would be one.
Such a strange, strange, un-natural, bizarre, contrived, convoluted, backwards place I find myself -- when these thoughts and feelings rush through me.
There are people still who are one with the world. They survive, their families, in distant places, far from the reach of the Great Machine.
They are not safe.
The Machine is coming, slowly, but surely, to their homes.
Ripping, crashing, tearing, grinding... the Great Machine of Civilization has a life of its own.
I've been a cog in the Machine. I probably still am a cog in the Machine, most days, most of the time. After all, I consume vast quantities of energy... and the food I eat was produced using vast quantities of energy and other parts of the world, torn from it by the Machine of which I am a part.
Will the Machine grind to a halt as the energy dwindles?
Will I we be left in a world that we denude in an attempt to feel ourselves?
Will this place I now live be turned into a desert, akin to the deserts in Africa, where the people strip the land bare, and then, having destroyed, inadvertently perhaps, their world the people live on, fed by the Machine itself?
Some times, I wonder about the world.
I wonder about my direction in life.
I wonder about my goals... my purpose... my meaning... if there even is a meaning for me.
I don't think I'm the only one. We are all a part of the Great Machine, whether we recognize it or not. For those of us who see our place in it, at least we can verbalize, to a certain extent, what it is precisely that we're feeling.
The Machine calls me back in... "Here are diversions made especially for you... films, music, writings, a cozy bed, a place to call your own... Come back to me, my son, you are important to me. You are a part of me. You are home."
I answer the call...
until the next time that ...
... I wonder.
Some times, I wonder.
Some times, I wonder... about how things might have been, had I been born long ago, or born long from now.
This is such a strange, bizarre world.
I was at a restaurant this evening, in the lavatory, washing my hands, and I thought to myself, "This is surreal. Here I am, an animal, in a box, rubbing his hands together, with some sort of slippery stuff, that came out of a white sort of box, stuck to a flat surface, with a white rock like thing catching water, that is flowing in a smooth column out of a shiny bent thing... This is not natural. This is not normal."
Such thoughts occur to me, from time to time. What a utterly concocted world we find ourselves in, surrounded by things built by others, and so unlike everything else in the world.
If I were born only a dozen millenia ago, I would be walking, feet touching the ground, seeing the plants, and hearing the animals.
Life would be all around me, all the time.
People, family, would also be all around me, almost all of the time.
My language would be different. Being part of the world, it would have to be. In fact, I doubt that I would draw a line between myself and the world, at least not in the way that I do today.
My feet would touch the ground, my skin would touch the air, my hands would touch the plants, and everything would be one.
Such a strange, strange, un-natural, bizarre, contrived, convoluted, backwards place I find myself -- when these thoughts and feelings rush through me.
There are people still who are one with the world. They survive, their families, in distant places, far from the reach of the Great Machine.
They are not safe.
The Machine is coming, slowly, but surely, to their homes.
Ripping, crashing, tearing, grinding... the Great Machine of Civilization has a life of its own.
I've been a cog in the Machine. I probably still am a cog in the Machine, most days, most of the time. After all, I consume vast quantities of energy... and the food I eat was produced using vast quantities of energy and other parts of the world, torn from it by the Machine of which I am a part.
Will the Machine grind to a halt as the energy dwindles?
Will I we be left in a world that we denude in an attempt to feel ourselves?
Will this place I now live be turned into a desert, akin to the deserts in Africa, where the people strip the land bare, and then, having destroyed, inadvertently perhaps, their world the people live on, fed by the Machine itself?
Some times, I wonder about the world.
I wonder about my direction in life.
I wonder about my goals... my purpose... my meaning... if there even is a meaning for me.
I don't think I'm the only one. We are all a part of the Great Machine, whether we recognize it or not. For those of us who see our place in it, at least we can verbalize, to a certain extent, what it is precisely that we're feeling.
The Machine calls me back in... "Here are diversions made especially for you... films, music, writings, a cozy bed, a place to call your own... Come back to me, my son, you are important to me. You are a part of me. You are home."
I answer the call...
until the next time that ...
... I wonder.