"Slaves are costing too much these days. The day wages are atrocious. It is time for a crisis. Put the poor into distress, let them be grateful for any slice of bread no matter how small or dry, and let them drag down the middle classes. Once they're fighting it out at the bottom for survival their prices will go down. And, here we'll be, the beloved royal family, sitting pretty at the top, being every so gracious."
Capitalism is designed to reduce labour cost and maximise profit, thus it relies on poverty and desperation to function. This system born in the Victorian genocide of the aristocracy on the poor is still causing massive death and starvation globally - twenty one thousand child deaths from malnutrition related causes daily, hellish lives, early deaths. It's time for a new system, one that is built on love as the philosophical first principle, as a tree trunk from which all branches must grow. We need social evolution.
The blanket radiates my own warmth back within and I let my love do the same. I love everyone and everything, yet sometimes I need to keep it inside so I can keep warm enough. I let my fingers feel the strong fabric that is my cocoon for this night and sense my folded wings strengthen.
Like a charred bone the lamppost stands black against the snow. The light at the top has long been broken. Wherever those shards of glass fell had been long covered by leaf litter and stones. Its paint has been chipped by shrapnel and there are a few bullet holes. It stands as a monument to what life used to be and what it became. No more reassuring glow guiding you home, no more friendly orange-yellow glow. Just cold metal to the touch, rough to the finger tips and a symbol of our sorrows. When we make it out of these dark times I'm going to paint it bright colors and hang a basket of flowers from the top. I wouldn't want to tear it down. I will transform it to show how we transformed from these terrible times back to joy. I know it will come. I have faith.
Editor recommendation: There is much unexplored material for novels, screenplays and movies in, "The Condition of the Working Class in England," by Friedrich Engels. I suspect the information in it would lend itself nicely to creating Netflix series and such.
Happy Writing!
Angela Abraham
Tears rolled down, wetting every part of her cheek. Her eyes pleaded for Succor and help, albeit that she knew no one was coming. There was only darkness as her own demons haunted and strangled her. She was suffocating. In the pain of abandonment she almost forgot how to feel. She desired amnesia so that all this suffering could fade away, fade and allow memories of laughter to soothe her, to restore peace in her life.
Breath pale against the numbing air, she blinked thoughtfully as the frost patiently kissed her face, captivated by the soft, dusty illusions of light that sat heavy on her eyelashes. She adored the snow, moreso when it was falling.
This bow has been my steady partner all these years, safe at my side. The arrows it launches fly straight and true, always right on target. I would feel less at ease walking these forests without it, I guess some things become a part of you over time.
They always told me I'd feel better if I put my feelings on paper, so I did. But I always knew deep down inside me, neither the ink in my pen or the stencil in my pencil are strong enough to handle the words I want to write.
The boys are perfect fiery sparks, playing under a sky with the glow of a hearth. They are the joy that dances and the light of their mother's soul, these sons that shine so brightly day and night. It is their laughter that radiates outward, the same as ripples from a bouncing stone, and their sweetness is as much the warmth of the evening as the rosy-gold rays.
I loved to touch him - never in a sexual way, never anywhere other than his face, his hands, his obsidian hair that fell in tousled locks. His warmth would seep into my being and he comforted me without ever opening his mouth. I'd melt into him like ice-cream on a warm porcelain bowl, like I belonged next to him, like he belonged next to me. And each time before we parted the aching to be in his arms would begin anew.
