Everything you do in this life should be for love.
Eat for love. Work for love. Play for love. Fuck for love. Laugh for love. Marry for love. Die for love.
(Make sure to save that one for last, lest you preclude any of the ones before it.)
Life is short as shit (even though sometimes it doesn’t feel short enough).
No one else can live your life for you (much as too many people try).
When I look around, I see people walking around locked into staged events unfolding before them on little screens they hold in their hands like beacons of satanic light.
I see people with scrambling fingers sending feverish communications to their fellow neurotic friends and loved ones.
I see people obsessed with corporate entertainments provided by those who don’t necessarily have their best interests in mind.
I see people driving cars and motorcycles so fast they seem not to notice that their lives are not a video game and we pedestrians are not targets intended for their personal liquidation and pathological amusement.
I see dust particles in the air that shouldn’t be there. When I breathe them in, my lungs agree and respond with a cough.
I feel my heart racing like a machine gun whose trigger is being pulled by a lonely misunderstood teenage boy trying to blast his way to heaven by eradicating as many citizens as his hand-eye coordination will allow.
I hear politicians making the same tired old flatulent promises they’re paid to break and the same deafening waves of applause that follow their heartfelt lies.
If I hunch my shoulders and screw up my face and cock my head to the side and listen real closely I can even hear the screams of families being murdered by remote-controlled weapons my tax dollars help fund. Thanks to me and others too busy or lazy or both to demand an end to war their lives are no fun, and neither, I suspect, are their deaths.
In shopping malls littered with restaurants so expensive even the gods couldn’t afford to eat there I see ads for Hollywood blockbuster movies made with the aid of the Pentagon promoting the project of pseudo-patriotic, spectacularly psychotic propaganda on behalf of misanthropes a little higher up than I am on the pyramid of parasites.
I see people praying and waiting for God to undo the damage they have done.
I see God standing with his hands on his hips, impatiently tapping his foot.
I hear him say in a campy voice, “Come on, people! I’m waiting too-hoo!”
I smell the forests burning and hear the oceans bubbling.
Throughout human history, there are those who have stood up and said that love can save the world.
Maybe it can. Maybe not.
That remains to be seen.
(In this relatively short entry, it turns out I’ve used the word “I” no fewer than eighteen times. As William Sloane Coffin said, “The smallest person you’ll ever meet is the one who’s all wrapped up in himself.” Figuratively he may be right, though in a literal sense, I assure you he’s wrong. You couldn’t describe me as small; if anything, I’m morbidly obese–or else just obesely morbid.)