…. is relative. You strive, you drive, you amass, you quench a need. Addicted to pleasure and bought glory, you crave more, you feel powerful, you’re flying….till it peaks.
Now you age, you decline, you fret, you sweat to oversee the great vaults of treasure and the outcrops of all your territories. The days contract, the thrills lace through with diminishing returns.
You stage a last-ditch stand to save your crumbling estate, soon to be passed to others… ….like Madonna pitching a final bid at greatness. The performance is lamentable. The hubris is painfully public.
We look on with ill-disguised pity. Embarrassing. Like faded sirens or Michael Jackson trying to curtail Time and change. Like the British Empire in tatters beating a path to the oligarchic trough, rubbing snouts with big balls swine.
Rare birds like Bill Gates, humanitarians and philanthropists aren’t included in the analogy. But you are Mr Mogg, Trump, Johnson, Murdoch and all the Jeremy Unts.
The artistic license excusing the arguable coarseness of this meditation is mine to own. Aspiring to something raw yet beautiful, I shoulder my wages as you must carry your greed.
Now you’re old, you’re cold, you’re loaded but outmoded and you can’t take it with you anyway. It seems you weren’t the source of abundance for if that was so it would still be thus. The straits of entropy are purely mechanical but the starry cosmos is aesthetically, esoterically immeasurable. Reductionism works as schematic but acts as a poor man’s philosophy.
Old Mr Mogg, Mr Hog and all the Jeremy Unts, the time has come for you to be shanty-town poor. It’s a conservative estimate but hey, near as damn it in your projected future.
You sit slumped amongst your mountain of trophies that’ll be here when you’re gone. Every last silver spoon, each monogrammed cufflink. every ashtray will still be here when you’re dust. All you’ve left is the karma you earned from the people you’ve crushed along the way.
Was it worth it?
This contribution to our blog was written by @MarianneVelvart