| what i think about on the train |
[Oct. 10th, 2008|04:22 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  peaceful | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | The 9th Wonder- Sweetest Language | ] |
Even late into the night the bus collects passengers from solitary bus stops, urbanized with spray paint, old gum and empty drink cups.
On the bus, the driver keeps the lights illuminated to keep up the unwanted few extending the already extended working hours of laborious days. Having been through the best and worst of it you can sleep anywhere. But not here
Lights casts identity on the thug who robs you, only to have the police reveal he does not exist. In the light strain your eyes to examine the obscure glare of your reflection on the window and see what the work has done to you. Use the light to read the media and powerful men who dictate your predetermined fate. No time to rest the spent heads and bodies, you are needed. Those above you need you. The rich can not exist without the poor.
The light illuminates what they want you to see. So become their light source and see what they want you to. Without this light, they could not see how rich they are. How greedy they are. How ungiving they are. How broken they are. And at the the same time, how perfect they are.
Your life is the sun of their days and they do not want it to set anytime soon.
So stay awake, stay alive. You have a function
All you seek is a moment in the dark to contemplate and imagine that the inky absence of light is the cessation of your bright existence. To stop existing in a place where you are studied and cultivated, breeded to pronounce the desired traits.
Aside from the precious moments of isolation, feel as though you have to live up to the expectations you had no part in creating. You are expected to fail and fall into a crack in the sidewalk they walk upon and sprout up like those blades of grass that grow through solid concrete.
The strongest, toughest, most able to survive in destitution blades of grass.
I think white people like having ghettos around. If there were none, who would collect their garbage?
Trumental |
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