The opulence of this place is suffocating. It is a world inside a world, barricaded from the filth and the dust outside by men and women who must return to the filth and the dust outside at the end of the day. We are spoilt for choices. There is enough food here to feed a village and yet we sniff at it, scowl, and move on. Make no mistake, I am not a communist weeping over the death of a dream. I enjoy walnut brownies. (I ate one too, although I had trouble managing a fork. It would crumble to pieces before I could bring it to my mouth. A telling sign, perhaps of what my life in this world would be like.) But the excesses lavished on this gathering are a bit too much for my taste. I realise, much to my consternation, that I have seen people die of hunger while I am wondering what "hummus with pita bread" is supposed to be. Life is never without a sense of irony.
People can get used to anything. To having the doors of their cars opened for them. To the company of light music softly floating down ghost jukeboxes hidden from view in the labyrinthine, immaculate washrooms. To mineral water and generous helpings of pineapple for dessert. Getting used to is not the difficult part. (She tells me I must be more open to new experiences. Well, I have never really been able to explain to her my fears. Better safe than sorry, you see) Soon, they begin to expect their asses will be wiped for them. They will turn up their noses, make a face, and sport a grimace every time the stench gets too strong. The excesses and the opulence become a fact of their privileged lives and they are loathe to relinquish this vantage point. Why should they? This life is good. Hell, it has good manners, paper towels, and caesar salad.
That is when I stop empathising. Fuck, that is when I begun to ignore. (For empathy is too loaded a word and whoever knows the heartache of a lover spurned without having suffered herself.) I see but do not notice. I hear but do not listen. So run away. Don't let the comfort of these cynical words turn into an excuse for inaction. For time is running out and there is no place to stand. The voices are closing in and they are murmuring strange, dark, tempting secrets in my ears. They will have my soul and I won't even know it.
People can get used to anything. To having the doors of their cars opened for them. To the company of light music softly floating down ghost jukeboxes hidden from view in the labyrinthine, immaculate washrooms. To mineral water and generous helpings of pineapple for dessert. Getting used to is not the difficult part. (She tells me I must be more open to new experiences. Well, I have never really been able to explain to her my fears. Better safe than sorry, you see) Soon, they begin to expect their asses will be wiped for them. They will turn up their noses, make a face, and sport a grimace every time the stench gets too strong. The excesses and the opulence become a fact of their privileged lives and they are loathe to relinquish this vantage point. Why should they? This life is good. Hell, it has good manners, paper towels, and caesar salad.
That is when I stop empathising. Fuck, that is when I begun to ignore. (For empathy is too loaded a word and whoever knows the heartache of a lover spurned without having suffered herself.) I see but do not notice. I hear but do not listen. So run away. Don't let the comfort of these cynical words turn into an excuse for inaction. For time is running out and there is no place to stand. The voices are closing in and they are murmuring strange, dark, tempting secrets in my ears. They will have my soul and I won't even know it.
