The (Film) Industry of Broken Dreams

This is not my Business, this is not my life. This is not where I end.

The pettiness of your ultra important tasks
The snappiness of your arrogance, so caught up in your ordinary
The overbearing presence of your inflated ego
It all sickens me

I'm not one of you people, accommodated in your over-weight unhappiness while pretending this is not really your life, although you haven't taken a vacation in ten years
And I'm not talking about a freaking 4 day cruise, or your weekend in Cabo, or your 14 cities in 10 days European trip. I'm talking about the tiny little world outside the state-of-the-art movie set rolling in your head.

I watch your misery pacing across office cubicles and motorhomes
I hear your heavy tone on your uber calls
I smell the petulance in your shallow smile
I see underneath your surface

And then you tell me, "but you know, work is work, I may be an asshole sometimes around here but I'm under a lot of pressure, you know. I'm very different than this in my normal life."

So, news-flash to you, Mr. Split Personality: Your actual life is not much more than what you do with it every day. If you've been working 15hrs days, 6 days a week, for the last years of your life, this is actually what your "normal life" is. What are you going to say now? "No, no, I'm really cool and active on the 2 hours left of my day after we wrap."

Your Groundhog life is a variation of the same questions asked over and over again, "where is crafty, what time is lunch, when do we wrap?" Every day you whine about your early calls and pray for the day to go by. You watch the clock ticking and long for one less day in your life.

Wake up, my friend. You're one more slave of these gold handcuffs. You have sold your soul to dough the day you filled out that first timecard. You got blinded by dollar signs on an opaque paycheck. Time keeps slipping through your fingers while you collect wrinkles in your face and zeros in your bank account.

What's the price of your money?

Look at the mirror
You have aged, haven't you?
Your work has consumed you, swallowed your old longings
You're an empty treasure chest of broken dreams

Is this means to an end or just the end?

Remember those days when you're a kid full of will
Days you wished to be the man you have inside
Days you promised you wouldn't be one of them
Guess what? You are Them

And you're right, who am I to say I'm not?
Believe me, there are thousand hidden tears in portable parties, reassuring myself that I won't give into the evilest ways some people around me have been trying to teach me by default
There is a permanent struggle with this unyielding Success infection shouting through the media waves
I know to wash my ego out every night, patting off any vestige of contamination

I shall not forget what I'm made of

So to you, seating there on your throne of financial achievements, I say, "go eat some flowers", because smelling them is not enough. Book a real vacation as you book a job, fuck your wife more often (or grow some balls and finally divorce her, if you've been contemplating your cowardness every time you pretend you're still attracted to her), move your lazy ass out of your leather couch and get outside, stop watching games and go play them.

Live mothafucka, live!

And if you must choose to stay, at least go shoot your own dreams!