I can't begin to pretend that life is easy.
Somewhere in Iowa is a man or woman who's life has been that of calm, serene and altogether problemless existance. They were raised in goodness, not knowing an unkind word or stressful upbringing. They schooled and worked and got married in utter contentment. Their conversations never stray much beyond that of the weather and dinner choices.
Given a guess, I'd say that they lived on a farm and were happy with that as a choice. They didn't know hunger, were not beset with children with angst, spouses who cheated, employers who belittled. In short, they were the perfect product of a society intent on perfection on demand.
I wonder if this individual ever dreams, ever has illusions of something greater than themselves. If they write. If, perchance, they have ever stopped by Diaryland and wondered, for just a moment.
This person could wither and die and be mourned, but not really remembered. Their quiet and steadfast life a brief interlude in the swirl. Friends might gather at the wake and say "Yes, such a shame. They lived such a good life", and immediately dismiss from their minds everything good about it.
I wonder if they ever once turn Led Zepplin up to earth shaking levels on their car stereo.
What is it about this prodding and pummiling, by our government and media, to turn us all into the perfect Iowa people we always suspect that they yearn for us to be?
Isn't blithering inanities better than all that?
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