Thursday, September 18, 2014

La Pequeña Burguesía

The poor can afford to be honest.

Like the dead, they've no pretensions to preserve. Robbed of all, they are safe.

They wander the streets: "Are you hungry?" "Yes." "I have a banana and some pretzels." "That sounds great." "Here you go." "God bless you. Have a great weekend." The best interchange we have all year, the most human.

The wealthy are frightened of reality, and shore up every scrap of philanthropy against their ruin. Their philanthropy masks their egotism, and provides a platform for their soap-boxing. Wealth provides a help for every kind of depravity. When one is wealthy and comfortable, why should he question his own motives?

It is far easier to make exorbitant claims when no one can effectively remonstrate. Safe in our death-defying capsules of Self. Unassailable idiocracy.

The poor can afford to be honest. They can accept truth regardless of its source. They can think a nun the greatest soul alive. They can praise a priest.

The poor suffer the universal victimization of human sin. They are its representatives, its constant proof, and they need no other label to be recognized. They live the utterly real.

But the prison of the rich is ivory. It's gate the gate of sawn ivory.

Teach me, you who are rich, how one rejects wisdom. If a man were to give his life for yours, how would you rationalize his stupidity for doing so, and simultaneously assert your own righteousness?

The rich may become great because the burden of proof always rests upon them. Martin Luther King was rich for a black man, but his case was poor and thus proveable.

Today, the imposters of his cause do not prove their case, but instead use the golden fist.

Mi pequeña burguesía, tu vida es una mentira. El reloj del universo para ti no espera. Despierten.


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