It was never a question of survival,

at least not for long,

but of progress.

 

Not the progress of condo development and urbanization,

or even a take-back-the-streets or reforestation,

but a human progress.

 

It is easy to survive in a bloated existence.

 

Life is lived out on silver platters

sometimes lined with gold paint

other times shit,

but the inside is all the same.

 

Complacency,

comfort,

but it's of a numb variety.

 

Democraticzed boredom,

CAN YOU HEAR ME?

Boredom has become democratized.

 

It's horrible,

even the working class feel boredom

– beat it out with gunshots to projections of humans –

the quasi-intellectuals in ivory towers

– known it out by the sound of dices rolling,

or kids screaming in ears,

middling worries, or egotistical chest-thumping, about rat populations- 

whatever tries to tickle what can not be tickled.

 

Some say the train derailed after failed revolutions,

or from near-tyrannical governments

– although tyrants don't come like they used to,

in the 1900s or even 1200s –

but there is always choice.

 

Chirk it,

you know you want to,

come on man,

who wants responsibility anyways?

 

It's not your fault you are bored,

– or is your guilt rattling your conscience? –

but then again,

maybe it is.

 

You can blame the culture that force-feeds spectacle

– with their fists –

into every orifice in your body,

leaving you numb, gaping, confused,

but the blame doesn't belong there.

 

You take it all in, 

you open your legs for the wrong pleasures,

you have become a spectacle whore like any other,

and that responsibility

– along with the guilt – 

is yours to bear.

 

You can wake up and become a being worthy of greatness,

or lay back with your metaphysical legs wide open,

waiting for next flashy new toy to fill the void in your life.