your reality is a bank statement

i could spend hours complaining about the people who come here and lift what they need, then go on doing their lives. my blog informs me of everyone’s visits–where they are and what they’re reading. i know enough to know enough. but what good would that do me, to call them out for taking my work, and calling it theirs?

my dearest deja and i share the same fate. we write ourselves all too easily–because this world has been hard on us. it takes a certain amount of oppression, madness, and breaking to write and write well. one has to know pain to see it everywhere.

and perhaps that is it. those in the cushy comfort of privilege sit in chairs high up, dressed in velvet, in pomp. they surround themselves in a world not of their own making. they surround themselves in a world wrought into being by other people’s hands. perhaps we cannot expect too much from their writing. life, for them, as seen through the stains of exalted economy.

must be nice.

i struggle to have pity and calm acceptance for those giving my good friend piracy a bad name. like deja says it better: “plagiarism is a vain theory.” Piracy lives as a sharing of culture. piracy has an ethos of good will, of cheer. it gives thought like a gift, and asks nothing in return.

And here we see the alternate angle of economy and capitalism. yesterday, mid thesis-writing, i couldn’t think of a dialogue tag. i had the urge to say Benkler was capitalising off a moment, but he wasn’t; and i sure as hell didn’t want to say that about him.

odd that i heard that verb in my head when here i am, quietly shouting to you all that i know certain people are capitalising off my work and off of deja’s beauty. in their vanity, they are plagiarising our lives for their profit. does it taste sweet when it is second-hand?

(me and my rhetorical questions)

i won’t ask you to stop. i won’t even give you the social gift of proclaiming to everyone who you are. i know your face all too well; i used to love it like my own. but i will say that you fail to see the best of my work, as does the world. i hide it in places you cannot reach. i hide it because the world isn’t made of dollars; it is made of realities.

the reality is that every time we exploit another living being for economy, we resign ourselves to the most vain theory of all: capitalism. capitalism makes you think you are worthy by every figmented dollar you “own.” it makes you think you are beautiful with every injection and adornment you put into/on/upon yourself. but, like Dorian Gray’s portrait, we all know what you look like without your austerity.

we all know you look like a failing interest rate.

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