Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Hero Worship vs Craft Beer and Good Music



 
I often imagine myself alone, walking through the rainforest, looking for my spirit animal. It's just a cool thing to do. And, somehow, that little internal image reminds me that people are ridiculous. Of course, there are those who might think my imagination is ridiculous. 

I knew a guy once. You've probably known someone like this. He tried to convince me that the only way to be successful in life was to make a lot of money. He had an expensive car. He had one of those jobs where you take advantage of other people by making money for marking up money or just rolling around in money or something. He was basically a shit. 

His whole concept of life was that people wanted to acquire wealth. The more wealth they had, the more happy they were, obviously. 

He had convinced himself that he was correct by using words like "security" and "prosperity" whenever he needed to defend his overabundance of stuff. 

On my eternal, internal rainforest quest to find my spirit animal this man is there, in the bushes, under the rocks, whispering condemnations and constant admonitions. 

He wants me to know that his worship of "security" in the form of "MONEY" is a representation of Life's purpose. He wants me to know I am a fool for not following the green paper road to his little land of Oz. 

We live on.

Heroes, of worship, come in many forms: rock stars, writers, politicians, programmers, players and preaching prayers. There is this need inside some to be seen, on top of the mountain. "Look at me!" 

How do I explain to those people that I only want to find that fleeting dream, deep inside, where raising my children, a small fire with a few friends, good drink and a guitar, smacking a drum and laughing some, is my vision of heaven?

Heroes, are seldom seen.    

Always there, under those rocks, where they stand upon mountains sits the ancient monkey, who waits to whisk in and steal the meal for the simple feast when we turn our backs in some revelous moment.

He will squeak and tweak and into the back seat of his BMW, will throw the fun away. 

As I say. He is basically a shit. 

There are women as well. Like this man, just as much shits. The difference is simply, they have large, sculpted tits.

Out in the mass of potential that is the vacuum of space, the draw pulls. Everything will fly apart. Shits and tits, everything will cease. 

What will tears have ever been? 

I often think of myself alone, roaming through the woods, looking for my spirit animal. It's such a cool thing to do. Somehow, that little internal image reminds me that people are ridiculous.    


       

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