Well, think about it. A man had two servants. One of them, he had stripped to the waist and flogged publically. The other? He got a rich gift of seven sheckels. For who shall question the master of the house?
That's a parable, people, and the moral to the story is: there isn't one. Things are set up how they're set up. Do I deserve this?
Did I deserve to be born?
No. Did you?
Because if you did, how'd you pull that off? Deserving to be born. I didn't even deserve to be conceived. As far as I can tell, it's a sperm-in-a-million chance that I'm ever even right here typing this. I am quite literally figuratively - the single representative who made it through, out of all of William Shakespeare's complete works of the infinite monkeys! Oh, sure, the number of sperm in any given load's not technically "infinite," but then, sperm can't type, either. So the metaphor falls down if you overextend it, but that's true of all metaphors. Metaphors are delicately balanced, easy to fall over when you stretch too far.
So if you deserved it - if you deserved being born - well, I'd like to know how, that's all. Because - sweet trick.
Heck, I didn't even consent to being born. Did you? If so, why?! Considering where you were, I mean. I resisted my ass off on that transition, I never even wanted to grow! I didn't want to get all big and cramped and crowded in there. I just wanted to stay a little pea-sized twerp, happy suspended in a huge, warm universe of cling and bounce, the amniotic sac, one of many floaties drifting in the warm fluid of the entire universe - and nutrition. Oh, the nutrition. God. That sweet, rich, saltywarm nutrition WOMP WOMP WOMP - straight to the navel! With every pulse, and pulse, and pulse of that endless samba my mommy's heart was pumping out steady boom steady, a tom tom signal to the one-man tiny man tribe who boogied within her, a message: "All clear!" "The revolt has been postponed, three a.m. and all's well." I didn't know that was my mommy. It was the fucking universe, as far as I was concerned and why should I have to leave it?
"'Mother' is the word for God, on the lips and hearts of all small children," quoth The Crow. Or words to similar effect, and of similar import. And he's got a point, people. That freaky regenerating vengeful revenant has a point. And he would know. Because he's got that weird, wobbly crow eyes vision. He can see over his own shoulder, like a bird!
So why work? Well that answer's pretty easy.
Because every god damn mother fucking one of us got disconnected from the universe an age ago. Because we were expelled from the only universe we knew, where everything was beautifully and perfectly deserved, or felt like it. Where contentment was both wakefulness, and deepest dream - we got disconnected POP! from the navel! Expelled and found ourselves crying, coerced, forced into this place! "Reality" they call it. Reality my ass. Where nothing happens naturally, not even nutrition! You have to howl for it, and suck titties just to poop your own drawers, albeit - to be honest, that wasn't so bad. But you grow and grow - the curse of nutrition. At every phase, you grow and grow, and life becomes a succession of disconnections from support, POP! from the navel! POP! from the home, into kindergarten with you for your milk and cookies! Your snack and nap! POP! ejected from college with some weird certificate, just as you were getting used to school food and good at the strange tests they'd prod you with. POP! into the void of
- work.
Where we are now. Where our original deep dream and wakefulness of contentment has faded, from being the only thing we knew, into a thing barely even remembered. Fouled into a resentment that clings. A bitter remembrance of better things, when what we needed simply seemed deserved, and happened naturally.
And so we work.
The craziest thing is? Your mom had the same exact thing happen to her. The cycle of victimhood goes back and back.
3 comments:
I disagree, sir. I don't think the womb was a very entertaining place where one would want to maintain a residency in. I've lived there for a good 9 months and can say without a doubt that I wanted out of there, and quickly! I'm the birthing equivalent of a chest bursting alien though, so maybe you're right. I just disagree is all.
Oh I loved it. I loved it! In retrospect, sure. I'm glad I was ejected but at the time? Hell no. I did not consent.
Are you saying you did? Or merely that you now, retroactively, do?
The latter - retroactive consent - is just what we call "forgiveness."
no, you know what, a more careful reading of your comment - you "wanted out of there." You did more than consent.
You initiated. You made the offer. It was the world forced to consent to receive you.
Well well done to you, sir. Glad you were born, and glad I was.
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