Damned are all of these zigzags. We, The People don’t rise with the sun that has maintained its fantastical cycle for years and years and years. We rise with black liquid that we make with click and beep and plug and cord, and how the dark chocolatey dissolved solids taste on our tongue does not matter because we know beforehand, our brain tells our mouth and its feelers that it must open and drink this liquid even if the liquid is not for it. The liquid carries caffeine and the caffeine carries our bodies just like the pungent gasoline carries our cars and our cars carry us. Some things are not ideal, and though they weren’t necessary once, they are now. The zigzags command so. They demand so.
And the stagnant energy that is drained from our bodies when we shuffle, when we sit, when we type, when we click, it suffocates us and turns We, The People into indoor plants: things, living things, that once grew outside under the sun, in the air, with the air, for the air, under rain and through wind, growing and booming and sleeping and dying. Except plants move on the inside with their photosynthesizing purposes, taking in light and creating energy. In our state, do we take in any light? Do we create energy inside of us or does it slip away? Is there any movement within us at all in the place where we spend most of our time, most of our lives, most of us?
Now we are encased in large glass displays, a greenhouse effect that grows paper that was once green but is now pale and dirty and stained, but that doesn’t matter because we never see how shriveled up it is, dry and yet sticky from the grease and the grime it has collected while traveling through the many hands that have worked and waited and risked all just to touch it. No, we never see the invisible bills. They are turned into things via online transactions, clean plastic cards the size of our palms that we can customize with photos of our children’s faces or maybe a photographer’s photo that was purchased by the bank that stamps a landscape of the mountains, a forest, maybe even a lake, or smart phone apps that allow us to pay in the form of air and wifi or expensive and limited cellphone data.
But then comes the time when one of two things happen: we need to stand up because we have sat for too long or we need to sit down because we have stood for too long all just to make these invisible representations of dollars move. But We, The People are proactive so we send this invisible money to giant buildings that always somehow manage to lack enough air and ventilation and be overstuffed with machines that work our overworked bodies. We build confidence, we seek health, we grow stronger. We pay monthly fees to lift heavy things up and then drop them down, to walk or run while not moving forward at all, to have enough space to lay out our bodies and stretch them further than our studios and shared apartments will allow, and to dab our foreheads with lavender scented towels.
In a corner, We, The People sit trying to do this thing called meditation, and we search for stillness and oneness and nothingness because the movement, the multitude, the many things rattle us. Breathing exercises, therapists, medication, stress balls, diets, and coloring books: old and new tools to try and fix us. Adderall to focus. Marijuana to relax us. And they all work like magic. Just like the wizards at Hogwarts, every wizard and witch to their own wand.
When we were little children We, The People climbed on the legs of our parents, the shelves of books that reached the ceiling, on the vintage furniture that decorated the spaces our parents worked hard to provide for us and guests and us and guests. Then we were told ,”No! Do not climb! Do not climb on people, do not climb on shelves, do not climb on grandma’s couch! Only climb the financial ladders!” And then our backs hurt from working these long hours, five days of our seven, so we can pay to climb on walls built to help us pull ourselves up off of the ground, out from the dark, back into our childhoods where fun was as easy as turning the floor into lava with our seven-year-old imaginations. Back then, we were so good with our imaginations we didn't even need to close our eyes to see new worlds and creations.
Though we improve the cycle continues: coffee without taste, work without being truly moved, attempts to be moved within and without, attempts to climb down from the 40th floor and back into the lobby of simpler times. We, The People have a dream that we wake up from and fall asleep to; a jagged journey, an assortment of zig zags, and dizzying deja vu that cannot maintain a cycle like the ever burning sun that chuckles at us as we wait for it to explode.
Sit, Let's all just wait for it to explode.