You have suspicions about the way the world works.
You wonder if you are watched. (You are.)
You suspect you are judged. (Oh, my, yes.)
But it isn’t God that’s watching. It is the Devil in each person’s busy little mind. It is the Dark Matter, that vast expanse amid all you think you know and what They tell you ought to be. We are connected to the Dark Matter by invisible strands that make us puppets in a sad collective.
They issue orders: Get a loan, stick to the plan, sign your life away, head down, pull the harness. Do not look at the stars. Do not hope.
The Puppeteer wants you to paint on a happy face and do Their bidding and make Them rich and never think you should do anything outside of your box. If you think “outside the box”, you’ll find you’re still in Their cage: the debts you can’t pay, the job you can’t leave, the cash you don’t have and even the unemployment you can’t break from. If you let them, They control the transmission: your thoughts.
The Matrix is real. You’re swimming in it now. It is cold and it does not care about you.
The cage is the limitation you put on yourself: Your little life is Their paradigm. Your tiny, unfulfilled dreams are Their victories.
We know how much you swear under your breath as you smile at church. We understand how scared you are. We share your fears. Your fears are legitimate.
They won’t tell you that, but that is the way it is. The universe doesn’t care about you any more than you are aware of a tiny stone on a small moon in an unknown constellation in a galaxy beyond your comprehension.
There is a choice: Wake up.
You will have to care for yourself. You can break from They. Form your collective of We.
We are dust motes in a sunbeam, mostly invisible, here for an instant and gone forever. We defy mortality with Art. Art is the only taste of immortality we are allowed. Graves are forgotten. In a generation? Perhaps two? You linger in no one’s memory without Art. Art is evidence you once breathed and loved and sang and thought and were.
You want to dismiss these words, but you know who They are. Even in your loneliest moments, you know you are a slave.
What is Their name? The Devil has many names:
Habit.
Tradition.
The Way It’s Done.
What You Should Do.
Normal.
What’s Expected.
What We Want for You.
Established Best Practices.
What We Need.
Nationalism.
Being “realistic”.
The Greater Good.
They aren’t concerned with your good and They do not want you to ask questions.
They are the enemy because They want you to pretend you are less than you are. They want to douse your flame and keep you asleep. They want you to die as soon as you are born.
They praise control, security and rigidity.
They condemn us because we are creative and we strive free ourselves of Their expectations.
But We?
We are not They.
We want to meet our own expectations and learn to control our own minds and hearts and bodies.
We set our goals and we stand for no dictator and we don’t sit to take dictation. We don’t put up with dicks, either.
We are not slaves. We are artists with names and aspirations. We write and produce art and inspire more art. We consume art and live it. Each conversation, connection and kind touch can be Art. Artists light fires in others, as one candle fires another.
We become Art in each giving, caring, real moment.
We make and remake our lives until we break the bonds They knotted so tightly when They insisted we sit quietly in straight rows, never questioning the paradigm that only benefits Them.
In creativity, We are Free and We live beyond the grave.
Our sunbeam warms us longer.
Our dust mote dances in the light.
~ I don’t know why I wrote this tonight. It often seems the world is stacked against an artist’s success. Successes are so rare, but success comes in many forms. What if I reach you tonight with these words? I couldn’t risk not whispering a word of encouragement in your ear.
This Plague of Days will launch soon. Until my stories are out in the world, these are the days of dread, the pregnant pause just before a hopeful, tenuous birth.
To read my books and catch my podcasts, see the links at AllThatChazz.com.
This Plague of Days 