How Long Will Stuff Mean More Than Love?

A woman down the street killed herself. She blew her head off with a shotgun. Brain matter flew across the street well into the empty lot. She was new to the block, in fact when she did it, she had been here for two weeks. She moved in with her sister and niece after her husband died. Not only did he die, but she lost her home because she couldn't afford it anymore. Why did she do it?

Several people at TK's work are getting engaged and committed. They are all wearing these huge rocks on their fingers. All paid for on credit. Are such huge diamonds really necessary? The real rarity of a diamond is controlled by the blood-filthy diamond industry, why pay so much and really own nothing?

TK woke up this morning early. I envisioned a morning of coffee and cards and hopefully love making. She called the bank to inquire about a car loan. We are down to one gas guzzling truck. The solution, trade it in and get a smaller vehicle. Sounds good, right? It's the American way. By doing this we would be spending much less money on gas and helping the world by not consuming. We would also be adding to our monthly debt and apparently ruining my sweet morning.

My solution is to ride my bike more often, to and from school. Or take public transportation. Her solution is to hide in herself and feel inadequate. I cannot abide by this. I cannot see how a car could ruin a persons whole day and put a person in such a tailspin of self hate. But all people have experienced this. The need for something overshadows the love others have for us. Or in the case of the flashy diamonds, takes the place of.

The two people with the huge rings have major problems. One of the people has only known and was only seeking material love (of her own admission), one of the people wants real love, but feels contractually bound to the giver. What has the grandness of gaudy fashion really afforded them? What can it afford any of us? Why do we insist upon living so far out of our means and searching for happiness among mounds of things when as far as we need to look is under our own roof? In the bed next to us. In the next room taking tiny breaths. Across the phone line wishing we were home. Who needs all of this shit? Not me. And not her. Because it makes no difference what I die with if I lived with unhappiness.