Another day.
The sun hits me through the gap in the blinds, but I can't enjoy it. I'm already thinking about work.
Even my thoughts I do not own.
I make coffee in the house that I do not own because if I do not pay taxes it can be taken away.
Months have gone by since I handed over meticulously collected savings – all I had – with shaky hands, my signature lopsided on the check I gave the bank teller. And none of the months matter unless they stop coming with checks to the bank attached. Then the house can be taken away again. If life is a game of Connect 4, I'm always in the red. Prevented from winning on both sides of a three-in-a-row line by heavy circular tokens.
If I lose my house, the government does not care. The bank does not care. Each telling each other that if I lose anything it's my fault anyways. I knew what I was getting into. But without the miraculous mind of Bobby Fischer, my chess game has limited options. Even if I know the ramifications backwards and forwards – I still have to take my turn with the moves that are open to me. Bad choices be damned. Does check mate still feel great when your opponent is not equally matched? Easy to turn a blind eye when you are a cog in the machine and you can just blame the machine. Keep on keeping on.
Back to my day. Even the coffee owns me. I'm addicted. To the cream, to the sugar. The dopamine burst that lets me forget for a second that every action that I have taken so far has been an action that I have not wanted to take.
My car is leased so I can try to replenish my savings after “buying” my house. I drive past protestors screaming about the latest atrocity. Begging to be heard. Begging to be seen for the individuals that each one of them are, when anyone with the ability to respond to the voices will only see the sea. It's easy to put in your noise cancelling headphones when you can afford them. It's easy to only think about your own experiences, your own desires and needs, when it is not your turn for pain and suffering. When you're lucky enough that the dice you roll on that front is weighted in your favor. Is it still the luck of the draw when you have control over the outcome?
In the office, we do a dance called corporate culture where everyone knows the steps. Quiet enough to encourage productivity. Beauty does not exist here. The colors and design so contrived the eyeballs of the aesthetes would bleed. Megan in marketing is daring for her bright pink uncomfortable heels. Can you really say it's not a uniform when I would be fired for wearing what I want to wear? Sweatpants and flip flops. I would be stopped at the door. My clothes own me too.
My eyes and ass hurt from a day of sitting in front of a screen. Using an exercise ball instead of a chair to pretend that this one action is a choice, a real option that I have this time. But nah. I'm only trying to not get fat because then I won't be valued as highly by other people. Your opinions own me too.
When I get home my delivery order is cold and missing a couple of items. But, eh who cares right? I could get angry. But at whom? The driver who is trying to hustle for their own American Dream? The restaurant owner who is prey amongst the category killer sharks and chain establishments? The delivery service who seemingly sucks in my anger like Hexxus in Ferngully and feeds off of it, laughing in my face as they point fingers and relinquish accountability? It's not worth it. I shut myself off from having emotions so they don't own me too.
At night I lay back in my bed counting down the hours until morning, knowing I should have went to sleep earlier. My mind jangling, the thoughts running from one side of my brain to the next. A trampoline brain I think as I crack the blinds, craving nature. Something real.
The moon blinks above and I swear I can see its mouth move as it says it's been here a long time. I think of Benjamin, the donkey in Animal Farm. And I fall asleep, wondering if I'll ever know what it is like to be free.