What breaks you.

I plunge my head in twisted torture when I think that between me and a plane stands a tremendous dollar sign. Part of growing taller and travelling forward is perhaps the ugly realisation that everything they tell you as a child reappears, statements with hands on their hips, smug in their expression. "Study hard. Get a good job. Get money. Money, money, money." Our lives revolve around an invention that is so concrete in our exchanges; one that traps and suffocates for reasons we don't understand. And don't we all wish it weren't this way? In our naive youthfulness we laugh in the face of such complaints and assure the world we will not be the same, we will not bear the struggle, we will not become his possession. But we get swept by the same wind into the same traps and speak of the same protests. Money carries us in his pockets. We feel warm and safe, brushed against bundled plastic until stitching wears away and we fall through. Where can you go? Left amidst crowds of strangers, I'm shaking, shaking.