Delusions of social status is the scream raving through the universe for decades now. A plague, incurable and swift as the wind never to be caught, but spread. A human can be labeled on what one wears? on what one labours for? on what one eats? on what one shits?!
We live in a world of mutualism. Each of us live on each other. Yet, we dare talk about social status? A farmer in the village will harvest the food on your plate tonight and you dare think living in a city of sky scrapers set you apart from all who fight the sun and rain to live its' life? Come to think of it, maybe it does! They are the real high rangers. The fighters of a modern day legacy. While you are the self damned king resting under the wings of the poorly battered legends, who are forgotten cos' your gleaming light of selfish survival is too bright. The souls will weep at the sight of your celebration on life, where you harp about the adventures of taking refuge. And the world; hypnotized by you who are adorned in a marvel of self obsession; listens, applauds and will sing songs of praise. In their eyes you are a living ecstasy, in mine you're a living defeat.
The unsung will always look down on you; from a place way up high, from a place worlds apart.
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