You want to know why we’re “lazy” ? You want to know why we lack motivation? its because we don’t buy into this distorted system of work until you die. I don’t know about you but I want to live, not wake up every morning to go to some mindless job and make someone else rich and then be expected to be thankful for the opportunity to do so, working jobs I hate so I can buy crap I don’t need. We are the middle children of history with no purpose or place, we have no great war; no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war, our great depression is our lives… Closed minded people who have the audacity to refer to themselves as adults, talk freely about how AWFUL, LAZY, STUPID and SELFISH my generation is, causes those of us who are in the midst of change to be stifled and silenced because the assumption is that nobody from my generation can POSSIBLY have anything worth while to say. So if you want to sit up on your high horse and cower in the face of change, all while turning up your nose at me because you think I’m not worth your time, then fine. But don’t you dare forget who raised us.

H a n d s

Today I look at my old, wrinkled, shaky hands in disgust how I have chosen to use them in my life.

I agonize over how many times I had shoved someone aside in hurried ambivalence or flipped a stranger off.

For words I wrote intending to hurt someone, or scratching, hitting or punching someone who didn’t deserve it.

I look at the veins protruding out of my thin flesh like cold, icy rivers.

I ponder over how many times I had thrown my hands up in the air in defeat, and how many times they had cradled my head as I cried far into the night.

I look at them now, worn and frail and weak, wondering then how I had used them for good.

How many times had I lifted another person up, or shook someones hand in greeting or gratitude? Finally writing my mother a letter after all this time, or caressing someones cheek with one hand while wiping away a tear with the other?

I reflect on instances of opening a door for someone, or feeling coins jingle in my pocket as I approached a hungry homeless person, and deciding to give them a few dollars instead.

How many hands did I hold in mine, how many times did I use them to touch someone in re-assurance or passion or in simple human kindness?

I look at my wrinkled, shaky hands no more in disgust, but in appreciation. 

And wonder how I might use them to help someone else today.


The Time Has Gone Away

The Time Has Gone Away



Dead Air