Playwrite (a poem by Jack)

Everything is so well rehearsed… Sometimes I ask myself who wrote their lines.. And how come I have no script.. If all the world’s a stage.. What part do I play..

A las…. I look around and perceive economic hardship and the deterioration it could do to a culture and the effects it can have on a man’s soul..

Then I dream back to a time before an economy ever was…when nature collaborated with man and quill to develop a unique script.. 

One fitting for an individual with limitless bounds yet specific needs..

But today… I see the same reruns.. In every eye of every player… Reads the same rerun told a millions times in one fucking way..

Get money or die… Die and get money… Get money and be happy.. Be happy with dying..

Yet true death is transition… This isn’t death at all.. It’s just perpetual dying.. A cycle of reducing life to merely a function.. And not a function of what.. But a function of who, and who is a role written not by fate but through social construct…and it’d be one thing to realize that it is all but an act.. But to actually emerge yourself in your role.. Well, it turns a light-hearted comedy into the most egregious of tragedies…

Indigo… Indigo … Indigo….

Wash away my sins… For I have betrayed myself and all that’s within.. From within and without is the Creators burst.. An infinite source always spontaneous, never rehearsed…

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