[SprawlSG] Modern Life Gets It Done, Ramble or Essay, and Reflection Options

[Kanada Ten]

Walking into the modern office is a bit like walking into a hospital or a morgue: Bodies sprawled out and drooling on rows of uncomfortable looking cots. Wires, crisscrossing their bodies and the floor, running to sterile machines that beep and whirl as solemn managers stand over, dutifully noting progress with checks and clicks.

The home is hardly better: a place where we feed our fat children and live out dull moments. Killing thought with drugs or pornography, living out false lives in chipped dreams, everyday is the same. We treat politics like a sport, rooting for teams and advantage. We have even turned war into a game, one we place bets on, and one where we cheer the death of our false enemies. The real fang of war removed, the pain of change, we become spectators of lust, greed, blood, and death.

We dare not go outside: When it doesn't rain poison from black clouds, the sky radiates cosmic death through brown haze, burning our skin and sprinkling malignant tumors. The air poisoned and constantly dark; the land lined with cars, heat, shit, litter, and the poor; the oceans toxic and violent (much like the streets). Our world, so rotten we must grow food indoors, cries out, but we have locked ourselves in steel towers, deaf to it. Our windows projecting a pleasant lie from a better time.

Ironic how we learn to fear the streets at night, a time when the blighted sun relents and the restless escape their shadow dens to hunt. Worse yet, and ironic still, that we have made guns easier to acquire and more legal to own, than knives. Are we saying, 'Better to kill yourselves than clog the hospitals already overstuffed with our elderly?' Strange how we desire to live this monotony forever, stranger still how long we breath and eat after our brains go silent.

Nature does not approve. Her tears returned that which can heal, that which can return beauty and purpose. But like all her gifts, we scorn it, lock up its children, shackle the talent and spew trinkets of plastic or trid to pacify the desire for it. More for profit, up the stocks. And into space we drag our legacy, our weak thoughtless lives exploring for a purpose we abandoned, forsaken gods, and adventures to chip.