Published in  
May 7, 2015

We live in a dollhouse

We live in a dollhouse.

We live in a dollhouse – a conceptual prison, a deviously shiny world where everything has been replaced by a plastic imitation; where food isn’t the applause of dirt, seed and song, but shocked cadavers frozen in violent time; where warmth isn’t the spontaneous glow that comes with knowing another is near, but a planned proximity, a forced memory; where health is a devious Pied Piper whose strange tunes are designed to entice us back to the workhouses and cotton-fields; where relationships are ventriloquized echoes of an outside orchestrating force; where we are beguiled into thinking that value is a function of things we ‘own’ and that we are apart from those ‘things’. The way out of this dollhouse is the way in: our redemption lies in recognizing the hardness of things. Only then will the nuts and bolts that hold it all together start to come undone. Only then will we notice the worlds we shut out when we first began to shut ourselves in.

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