Here I am conforming to the pressures of modern technology and blogging for the first time ever, in an attempt to compensate for my inability to afford psychotherapy. I never had a journal. My paranoid inclinations never allowed me to write anything down, without worrying about the ridicule the uncensored outpourings of my psyche may face. Perhaps it is fitting that I would blog rather than journal: While this blog is in no way "secret", it borders on being so, by being a droplet in an ocean of so many blogs, many of them even promising to be entertaining. I write about the mundane reality I exist in. There is nothing unique or special about it: It is a mere declaration of daily frustrations that may or may not be reaching the threshold of universality in globalized western society.
A "world-class city" my new home aspires to be, to no avail. My city already demolished most of our historical buildings. The symphony orchestra was about to go under a few years ago, if it had not been for funding from some philanthropist who happened to appreciate classical music. An annual carnival was created to showcase the works of a few artists, because a number of major corporations wanted to prove they, too, had the capacity to appreciate creativity. Yet our artists, as a rule, tend to live in abject poverty, regardless of whether they received awards or accolades or not. People who do not live here own most of the real estate, leading housing to be unaffordable for those who actually do. Social stratification has become an undeclared norm, in a country that long prided itself on alleged universal health care. Most still believe we live in one of the world's greatest countries, which says more about the world we live in than it does about our country. I know many a person would take offense to my statements. I would have, too, a few years back, but then I started meeting the unsheltered, the marginalized and the forgotten. They are all around us, trying to survive their every day bearing witness to the hypocrisy of our government seemingly advocating for human rights elsewhere.
I do not presume to understand the intricacies of our local and national politics, let alone our foreign policy. I am just disappointed with my experience of a particular population habitually falling through the cracks. No one seems to care or perhaps some do but they are just as "insignificant". Do I even care enough to make a difference? Perhaps not. I may be plagued by the tales of horror I unwittingly participate in, but I am also a hypocrite. I am part of that dysfunctional system I so loathe. I am fully dependent on it. I am a fraud. I fail the very population I hypothetically serve, daily. Despite their hope, their faith and the best of their efforts, I sell them empty promises and a pill; sometimes, two, three, even four or five. Come to think of it, I never counted the maximum number of pills I have slyly imposed on all those seeking that highly coveted shred of happiness. I constantly preach that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, when I see the tunnel is an endless abyss. I promote a purposeless scavenger hunt of imaginary items that shall never be found. I mean well, but I have grown tired with my impotence.
In the midst of the bleak surroundings of this reality, I cry my own minuscule woes, which are nothing when compared with those of most of who surround me. I have a supportive family, I need not fear the lack of shelter or food, I can always afford public transit and my inability to pay my bills is the direct consequence of my irresponsibility. I live on a former landfill region, that is now part of a cement jungle primarily housing the young and affluent. I have no real problems, except for the occasional pang of insight.
A "world-class city" my new home aspires to be, to no avail. My city already demolished most of our historical buildings. The symphony orchestra was about to go under a few years ago, if it had not been for funding from some philanthropist who happened to appreciate classical music. An annual carnival was created to showcase the works of a few artists, because a number of major corporations wanted to prove they, too, had the capacity to appreciate creativity. Yet our artists, as a rule, tend to live in abject poverty, regardless of whether they received awards or accolades or not. People who do not live here own most of the real estate, leading housing to be unaffordable for those who actually do. Social stratification has become an undeclared norm, in a country that long prided itself on alleged universal health care. Most still believe we live in one of the world's greatest countries, which says more about the world we live in than it does about our country. I know many a person would take offense to my statements. I would have, too, a few years back, but then I started meeting the unsheltered, the marginalized and the forgotten. They are all around us, trying to survive their every day bearing witness to the hypocrisy of our government seemingly advocating for human rights elsewhere.
I do not presume to understand the intricacies of our local and national politics, let alone our foreign policy. I am just disappointed with my experience of a particular population habitually falling through the cracks. No one seems to care or perhaps some do but they are just as "insignificant". Do I even care enough to make a difference? Perhaps not. I may be plagued by the tales of horror I unwittingly participate in, but I am also a hypocrite. I am part of that dysfunctional system I so loathe. I am fully dependent on it. I am a fraud. I fail the very population I hypothetically serve, daily. Despite their hope, their faith and the best of their efforts, I sell them empty promises and a pill; sometimes, two, three, even four or five. Come to think of it, I never counted the maximum number of pills I have slyly imposed on all those seeking that highly coveted shred of happiness. I constantly preach that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, when I see the tunnel is an endless abyss. I promote a purposeless scavenger hunt of imaginary items that shall never be found. I mean well, but I have grown tired with my impotence.
In the midst of the bleak surroundings of this reality, I cry my own minuscule woes, which are nothing when compared with those of most of who surround me. I have a supportive family, I need not fear the lack of shelter or food, I can always afford public transit and my inability to pay my bills is the direct consequence of my irresponsibility. I live on a former landfill region, that is now part of a cement jungle primarily housing the young and affluent. I have no real problems, except for the occasional pang of insight.
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