The human spirit is in shackles. Wage slavery has made the majority lazy, apathetic, and seeking escape. Living in disillusioned fantasies of becoming some recognized tycoon, perpetuating the power structures that have been forced on them since infancy. In a constant state of slumber, where they physically reside at that moment has no bearing on their mind. Eat, shit, talk about nothing, fill a void with another sick individual, lay in a bed. Never waking up. They turn on their window to the world to see images of protesters burning cop cars and smashing store windows. They thank their god that storm has yet to arrive here, and they pray to be dead before they would ever have to choose between violence and peace.

The walls of the spiritual prison get higher. The parts of the machine work ceaselessly, building the very structure that keeps them enslaved. Maybe someone sees a piece of graffiti, maybe someone reads some literature given to them by a friend. "Bullshit," they say, "I'm not some fucking mindless drone. I think for myself." They walk away justifying their actions and get reaffirmed at their job, by their family. But that thought is there now. Colors aren't as bright as they use to be, spending larger sums of money doesn't feel as good as it did. New experiences start to drive an anger they never knew was inside. The scripted rhetoric at every Starbucks makes them sick, the gluttonous habits of the rich forms their hand into a fist without a conscious thought, television and social media only make the insanity of those around them more apparent.

They lock the door, draw the curtains shut, and pace the middle of the room. What has changed? They have awoken. It is at this very moment where the answer comes digging into their skull, rearing it's head on a conscious plane deep in the mind. They have a choice to make. Bury that plane and make an active decision to never acknowledge it, continuing along the path of least resistance until some early onset disease takes their life before 65, go back to sleep or...

The individual walks to their closet, finds the darkest clothes they have and leaves in the middle of the night. The air is colder than usual, even with a sweatshirt it cuts through and goes deep into their bones. They leave their mobile phone at home, and for once feel truly alone. Alive.

In the morning that follows, news broadcasts report of a police substation burnt to the ground the previous night. No suspects, but evidence strongly suggests arson. Photos of the crime scene circulate various media outlets, and everyone gets to see a single spray painted message placed on anything still standing near the burnt out shell of the building...

"I have made my choice."

oldblvck
Spiritual Prison
VIII MMXII