The Patch Somatic

A handful of the fortunate and fortune obsessed oversee the entirety of the machine of society, ensuring that, above all, the rest of us continue to feed the machine. The machine that, without us, would crumble. We are holding the deteriorating, neglected bearings, splines, springs, seals, fasteners, and covers of it together with every greasy, callused hand, with every soot-filled breath. We hope for a better day while those lording over this dilapidated, mechanical abomination beat down the blueprints for a life that would be easier but less profitable. We still advance, but only when it suits the bottom line. We are spare parts, we are the rags tied to the pipes, the solder in the cracks, we are the expendable, disposable, replaceable gunk keeping the fuel from spraying out at every joint. Worry nothing for what you mean to them, for nothing is what you mean. Your life is sadly only the stolen minutes between labors. Find beauty there. Even only this amount of living is worth all of the dying.