* * * * * * *
Miles likes his job. He really does. It’s at least interesting enough that he can pretend to enjoy it. He gets to help people. Sorta. He’s there to tell them that everything’ll be okay, when to them, it seems that the whole world is rigged against them. He provides damage control for those that society spits out along its never ending quest of progressing greatness. Life seems to be getting better and better for everyone lost in their ipods as they float down the mainstream, oblivious to those whose lives were washed away with the flood, and if no one else seems to be bothered by the upcoming current’s event, then why should they?
Truth is, Miles fucking hates his job. It’s just papers and buttons and fake smiles, and an endless charade of convincing himself that he has the mental stability required to live within the dream, captive to the illusions of a functioning global community, and a self-inflicted prisoner of the economic sanctions of life, liberty, and the everlasting pursuit of complacency. A life’s time consumed by the fair market value of the human experience.
But he’s gotta work. He’s gotta have things. It may not be pretty, but the world is built on the broken dreams of the slaves convinced to believe in freedom. And even if the powers-that-be control the whole thing, pulling the strings that keep our hands tied from ever making real change, what can he really do about it anyway?
He’s just one dude. Nobody knows him. Nobody’s listening. Nobody even knows he exists. And he’s cool with that. He’s happy to keep his head down and just go with the flow. Happy enough, anyway.
Besides, if he did decide to speak of his unhappiness with the way things are, voicing the opinions of his unrested monologue and putting words to his thoughts of dropping out of the game altogether, well, the system is fundamentally wired to shun all who refuse to conform to the rules of the system.
The worth of a human can be easily quantified in rational numbers, from the negotiated wage of forfeiting one’s own lifetime, to the size of the mortgage acquired to prove full-blown adulthood. Money makes the world go round, and as hard as it is to convince yourself that you’re alive without it, it’s even harder to prove it to anyone else.
It’s true, you can’t survive without money, at least not in this manmade world of material girls. You gotta pay to play, you gotta pay to pray, you gotta pay for your own home and it’s illegal to be homeless. You simply can’t survive within this system without money, so you gotta get a job from the system to settle your debts with the system, so you gotta settle on whatever occupation you can find that vaguely resembles something that you actually care anything about.
So what’s the alternative? To rebuke it all? To refuse to participate in the insanity demanded by modern society? To allow yourself to fall out of civilization’s good graces and take up residence among the cracks in the sidewalk, the one that has been superimposed atop an entire world long forgotten? Nah, that’s just a bunch of crazy talk.
All this and more, crossed his mind as he crossed the street to grab a coffee. He poked through the myriad of muffins and scones, compilations of homemade vegan cream pies, bluetooth headsets with their sparkle mocha lattes, venti of course, although this bookstore baristaria doesn’t subscribe to the nonsensical nomenclatures of the coffee store down both sides of the street, but our bluetoothers don’t seem to notice, or care, or be capable of anything other than reciting the regurgitations of the people farm.
Miles is good with drip, medium medium, thinks he’s clever but knows deep down that he’s just another rat in the maze. Except he at least knows that the finish line holds no escape, only a meager chunk of stale cheddar, then it’s back to the monotony of the cage. A bit of banter as she fills his cup and he thinks he might have a crush on her, but what’s new?
He steps out to roll one while he burns the roof of his mouth, and their eyes lock. Not the barista, it’s this barefoot beauty, short dark hair, olive skin, and eyes that could tell a story, better than our author anyway. And oh yeah, a dress she’d been wearing for the better part of a week, and maybe the worst parts of it too. She could spot a mark from a mile away and her eyes started talking before he was even in earshot.
“Hey brother, if you’re looking for real anarchy, you’re not gonna find it in a book.”