Some people cruise through life with a silver spoon up their arse. Life is easy for them, and everything goes their way. They have the perfect spouse, beautiful kids, and their house sports a sparkling jetty on the river with their own yacht looking pristine and beautiful. And why aren't they caught fucking their hired help in their gigantic mansion?
There we have the lower classes. Some of them are born with hypodermics jutting out of their arm, pumped with poison. Their futures are decided for them by the corporations, the governments, or the illumin-bloody-ati, for all we know. They will be jacking cars on bricks to steal hubcaps, forming gangs that roam the streets like stray dogs, and continuing their hellish cycles.
Or what about the others? I mean the ones doomed to the perpetual rat-race, wake up, sneak to the showers to wash for work, stealing spaces in clogged highway lanes and lining up to collect the pittance from their puppet idiot of a boss. They fight for their wage, fight to keep balance between their work and family and sanity, driving two hours to work to work eight hours a day in a meaningless job before driving two hours home again just to pay for the house they want to live in. And for what?
Whichever you are, I know you have noticed. But have you ever looked and seen the creature hidden behind the curtain? Didn't you know?
You are the character in a movie. Maybe even a book!
For somewhere in another universe, far away from here, yet so close, we each have an author who sits at his or her cosmic typewriter or word processor. He or she sits and ponders, imagines us into existence, before typing with maniacal glee our lives. Perhaps we are the main character in their story. Maybe we're just the fill-in characters.
You know the issue of free will? Dude, that's an illusion. We're all puppets on a string, words crafted into sentences and paragraphs.
They write our world, create our lives, our backstories, and even decide what names our parents give us. They determine our first kisses, our first true loves (if they want to grant that), and they even bequeath us the crappy jobs we'd gladly leave if we could just win the bloody Lotto! Why can't we be Charlie with the Golden Ticket?
The author creates our conversations, gives us the cool one-liners in arguments, sometimes after we have lost the fight, and they shut us down with dialogue from our significant others.
And you know how you go someplace, meaning to do something, and when you arrive, you wonder what you were going to do? That, my friend, is when they backspace over what they originally wrote, making you forget what you were doing.
They determine if you win, lose, or succeed.
Or do they?
You see, I think I found a way out. But it could cost you your current existence. It could be worth it.
What do you reckon?
Are you in?
Copyright (C) Chris Johnson 2018
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