New clothes, same old problem

I could make my own clothes. Dragged for hours on end through shopping malls, second hand stores and trash dumps, nothing was to my liking. Wasting hours looking at pictures online of blouses, skirts, pants, mere pieces of cloth sold for hundreds, overpriced as fuck. Nothing is ever to my liking. Quality: nonexistent. Quantity: however much you want. Ten, twenty, hundreds, thousands, you can have them all today because the kids in Bangladesh and Vietnam looove working until exhaustion for you to put on those ugly pieces of synthetic material, not even cotton. It's disgusting. You wear them for a few months, and they're done. Holes start popping up, the colour fades, white or yellow stains caused by sweaty armpits appear. You can't wear it like that, what would the others think?

I could make my own clothes, and I could build my own home, run hundreds of km every year, fly somewhere eastern where it's hot all the time, bake cakes and pies and bread, solve quantum gravity, write not one, but ten novels, grow my own vegetables and chicken, paint the next Night Watch, fish for sport, drive a plane, read Spinoza in its entirety along with all the holy books of all religions, listen to the morning trill of birds while I drink my coffee, go to the moon, and also sleep 8 hours a night and have a happy family, husband, kids and dog included. I could do all of this, of course. Except, there are only 24 hours in a day (and to be honest, it feels like there's even less) and I only have around 22 thousand left, of which realistically 4 thousand or so will be spent either suffering or expecting to suffer, not being able to do half of the above mentioned. Perhaps, I'll lose my mind even earlier, at which point I hope my children put an end to my body, because I will no longer be there anyway.

This is just anger, it's not hope, it's not reality. The world isn't quite like this, and even before capitalism people had no time. In the era of "time is money", the most precious currency of all is time. Everyone wants to steal it from you. A phone call here, a request there, errands you have to run, food you need to make. Everything costs. Always. But this is just anger. We all like to complain when the sands of time are running low and there's nothing we can do to stop them, no matter how much we turn around the hourglass.

Immortality is a kink that no one actually wants to try in real life, it's just something you get off to when all the rest doesn't get it up anymore.

Cover

Alphonse Mucha, Moet & Chandon, 1899