The last bit of mulch spills out of the wheelbarrow. The dog anxiously stares out the door and barks as the kid repetitively says he is tired.
I don’t know how I got here. In this suburban setting with this suburban life. It’s my own fault. I never felt normal. I assumed if I could shove myself into that American Dream, I would become normal. The mortgage, the wife and the dog. Sitting on my mountain of success. But now I see, that mountain is a shifting pile of mulch and it is probably gonna kill the grass. I’ll need to move it soon. This isn’t normal and I’m not okay.
Worrying about curb appeal and drinking a beer. Watching my gut grow as my bank account shrinks. This isn’t the utopia that was advertised. I’d like my money back, please? Where is the return lane?
I’m tired of the tidiness of the neighbor’s yard, my return on my investment, my leaf blower and my IRA.
Somewhere while I was checking off the boxes, I lost the point. I lost the connection. My chakras stopped spinning because I stopped feeling. The pictures say I’m loved. The pictures say my life is good. But the dog needs fed and the yard needs mowed. I have no time to feel that love.
The American Dream has destroyed the person I am. I need to stop chasing. Maybe I need to sell the house, maybe I need to stop worrying about the fuckin’ mulch. I don’t feel real in this life. I’m too busy keeping up with this fucked up American Dream.
And each time I try to tell you, I hate it. You say, ‘Renting is a waste of money.’ ‘You’ll treasure and then ignore any of those sloppy raw, not dreamy emotions I share. Because you too have been shoving the illusion down your own throat and you don’t want me to ruin your Xanaxed version of the world. You want me to conform and love it. I just can’t.
Give me back my freedom, my time to connect to my wife, my time to understand the world, my time to lay in the sun.
Give me the trans people, the sex workers, the single moms, the broken families. Give me the people that are living life instead of paying to watch it on TV.
❤