Clueless Ink

They bury our purpose, our days, our reason for being, so they can serve their own.

They sell their purpose and ask us to forget ours.

Our weekdays vanish,

and they make us feel that having weekends is a gift.

They give us just enough time to rest, but not enough to find ourselves.

Just enough water to stay alive.

Just enough money to buy a holiday.

And we buy their purpose, without a second thought.

For what?

A better increment?

30%.

40% if we’re lucky.

We drift from one borrowed purpose to the next,

and we sell it, too, because it keeps us busy.

It keeps us away from our haunted thoughts,

of what to do,

of how to sit alone and figure it out.

It’s a choice we make, and that makes them great sellers.

They’re doing their job right.

And so we keep moving,

carrying borrowed purposes,

trading our fearful days for comfort,

for stability,

just enough to keep going.

We imagine it’s our purpose.

Until we decide to stop.

And maybe, one day,

I’ll have the courage to leave their purpose.

I’ll have my days full of fears,

my days full of days,

without money,

but with the chance to build my life again,

from the start.

Maybe, one day,

I’ll know for sure that

I bought my dreams

with some money of theirs,

and it will be a win-win, 

for my buried days.

—

Yours sincerely,

Monday blues