Life and living feels so far away. It is in the daily blend of consumptive delirium and fatigued labour that we are meant to be alive. I know so many others have commented on this truth, it isn't something special. We all feel it. The grind of life, the grind of the days. The push and pull of time. We all struggle to find ourselves in this blend. I forget to eat. I forget to write. I forget to do anything working towards more then what I am today. Instead, I work, I labour, I toil - and for what? For what does my sweat produce? Another man's wealth? For what does my bloody hands make? Falling shelves on sandy beaches? Our communities are crumbling from lack of people-centred investment. Our nations are fumbling in this liminal age of capital, godlessness, and global communications. Our earth is choking on the fumes of us - whipping up storms and drying her skin she cries for us to stop. But we walk onto the black oblivion somehow designed for us, by us.
Who do I want to be?
An unanswerable question dormant on the tongues of the many. I stand as an individual within a tragic reality. A world where my hopes are placed with spectres and the future is one of stomachless desire. Vapid hubris is the collar for the soul of the modern man. Corridors of labour and plastic line my conscious existence. I stumble between paths of living.
Do I wish to become great?
What is reality? What is existence? What is the meaning? What is the future? What is the past? What is time? What is the universe?
Questions float for the human mind.
It can be argued, for the citizens of the 21st century, that we live in webbed realities. The web of our creation and our capture.
Little to large boxes we adorn with trinkets and colours. For many, the majority of their physical energies are devoted to the creation and maintenance of new and better boxes. Although these boxes are cardboard unto the brewing storm, we divulge ourselves in fantasies of meaning and permanency. The box, both as a physical dwelling and spiritual icon, forms the centre of the web. The modern creature follows familiar lanes, visits familiar places, and works familiar jobs. We take pride in the webs of our creation. We take pride in the routines created and hours watched. The life of ours becomes focused on a streamlined traversal of the web. Our god is the sky or the next garden. But not our web.
The world of beyond presents a web of capture. A web of tombs and damnation. A web of veneered images and contemptuous monsters. A web soaked in the laws of greed and pride. The modern creature sits in this web of modernity as a captured subject. Their personal web is created to conform and create the ever-greater web of reality.
We exist in webbed realities. The spider shall take our souls.