Capitalism Sucks Strictly Because I Dont Make Enough Money To Buy All The Books I Want

capitalism sucks strictly because i don’t make enough money to buy all the books i want

Raskolnikov is to me what the Joker is to straight men

"We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality."

Running through the mirror maze has been messing with my intuition and all I want is to glance outside for once more. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears covering up the ironic elevator music slightly making itself heard from the other side of the floor. The air is cold and suspiciously still and if I stopped for just a second, no movement could be felt. For a moment, I detach myself from running, and I sniff around shortly and... Lavender, linden and chamomile. My memory jumps to my first lesson of herbology. The chapter? Somniferous effects. Adding 2 + 2 together, I jump back to the present moment I realize what this actually is. A dead end.

The realization hit me right before a curve, but the inertia and the lack of attention I was paying made it impossible for me not to run into one of the mirrors. The broken pieces flash before me as bits of my memories and choices that brought me here do as well, hurting my pale skin and my soul at the same time. The impact seems to have reset my mind and I find myself on the hard floor, surrounded by the broken mirror and blood. I glance at one of the pieces, slowly bringing my hand closer to it since I did not recognize myself in it, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was off. I trace with my eyes the red drops blood falling down my face like tears that no one would mind to wipe off. Feeling myself zoning into the mirror I take a second to look at the background of myself in the imagery, which froze me to the bones. In the corner to my left I saw a bright red light being lit and from behind me I hear a deep long breath like a reminder of where I am. I swiftly got up on the floor and began running again, but I was running out of luck. The adrenaline rush is fading, I realize, leaving me with the open wounds, the tiredness and the frozen fear.

I try to keep my eyes down to hopefully see the right path faster, since using logic is the only tool I have left, but I cannot keep myself from seeing the red light following my steps like a shadow, and contrasting the fluorescent light of the neon slowly losing power over me. With every breath I get out I feel myself feeling more tired, my legs crumbling under me and the pain settling in. I can feel the sugary smell getting stronger as I could almost taste it on my tongue, making me more tired, more vulnerable. Between my broken cries I hear my steps, my heartbeat, the abstracted noise that was the elevator music, and a constant buzz that I could not point the source of. I'd like to think it was only the neon, watching over me and my clumsy steps, and not that heartless brute following me to the end of my days. But before I could even think of it more, I am faced with yet another problem, as if I didn’t have already enough on my table - the actual dead end.

I quickly scan the view: a large window showing what is left of the city under the crescent moon. Seeing the picture from the 44th level, I can contour the destruction and it is now far more overwhelming. I try to evaluate my options now. To jump through the window hoping that the panic would get take me out before the impact, or to face the shadow and hope for the best. I look over my shoulder estimating the time I have before the choice is already made for me, I look back through the window, seeing the rows of crashed cars that would be my landing. I lower my hand to my thigh which I can feel pulsating, I grab the thin mirror shiver and I rapidly pull it out despite everything that I have ever thought to do in a case like this, and with my other hand I put pressure on the open wound. In the attempt of ignoring the feeling of the warm blood running between my fingers, I make my decision, and I choose both.

I grab the broken mirror piece and without thinking about it twice, I push it through the window, in hope of it breaking, but only a scratch is made. I feel the steps getting closer to me and so I try again, but not even now the glass is not broken, and only the palm of my hand deeply cut. Therefore, the choice is made for me. A cold shiver is taking over my body and I feel myself getting as cold as I am tired with every loud and heavy step I hear him taking. I barely stand on my legs, leaning with my back on the cold glass, counting once again the mistakes that have brought me here, and as I do so, the red light makes itself present again, lighting up the floor, which now I see, has made my path very clear through the drops and traces of my feet that I didn’t know I’ve left behind. I close my eyes and enjoy this deep and sweet breath I take, as accepting my fate.

I open my eyes, and hear “Morning sweetheart, breakfast is waiting” from the other side of the door. I look down at myself, and realize that it wasn’t just a dream, it was more than that. I close the book in my hands and wipe my tired eyes, recalling all that has happened, all that I lived. A fantasy life, in the safety of reality. I sniff the air - lavender, linden and chamomile – and I smile to myself. This isn’t over, not yet.

i see you, dorian

oscar wilde - only dull people are brilliant at breakfast

me @ all the books that made me bankrupt

i hate you (financially)