It isn’t a waste of time to scream at the stars, or throw out your oatmeal,
or watch birds pecking away at the feeder, or dip your feet into swirling
and muddy river water to retrieve a bit of red driftwood.
Who makes up such rules anyway? I’d really like to know. “Being productive” is
just doublespeak for “being a slave.” Profit, in the end, is measured by
the number of links in the chains binding you, and their thickness.
What have you nailed yourself to?
Does everything have to have a purpose? The tree next to our rig doesn’t. She seems
quite happy without one. I’ve labored most of my life believing that work makes worth.
More often than not, work is the lethal injection used to kill one’s spirit.
Photography: Bright as Yellow by Shawn Michel de Montaigne