Our relationship with the physical is that it’s there but it’s never ours, it’s never to be possessed: whether it is a lover, a physical space one stands on, material goods – clothing, food items, lotions…or even our own body. It’s in flux – in movement – in a constantly changing position. Never the same.
Finance people say – ‘depreciation’. Simple people call it ageing. We don’t often see it and we definitely do not possess it/control it. A constant flux – in move.
And we ourselves are in the move. We don’t stay in bed any longer than needed (with occasional exceptions to get that extra hour of sleep, to only occasionally to be there for the other (or for ourselves)) but we move – out of bed, out of our room, out of our house into something, constantly, and repetitively, constantly and unendingly. We don’t see the time. We don’t see how it has passed, how the ageing is in place – we just move…
Only the disruption – a question, a white streak of hair, a loss, a commemoration, an incapability reminds us that it is there, we are in it. Ageing is in the process.
In the meanwhile – we own the physical and yet, it’s never ours, never belonging fully. It’s detached, around us. Only so, if we are around.
Yet, the physical constrains us. The moves we do, the moves we cannot do. The political systems of the countries we inhabit, passports we own or do not own. They dictate the possibilities and define the boundaries of our moves. These political systems dictate access to the ways we see, if we see and if we move. Education, healthcare, transportation…
and another dictator is the market, they say. What is the market? What is this ungraspable demand? Supply? The market forces – perhaps the most cited and most easily excused explanation for any and every system around. And, yet, least definable, the vaguest of all.
Is it constructed or real? A fiction, perhaps (?) Who are those faceless demanders? How are those desires crafted that all the demanders fall under?
Are the marketers at fault? Are they the evil? Are they the gods constructing the everyday. The everyday of mine and yours. Is my day founded in front of a hip youngster sitting in an East End office while drinking their flat white and playing ping pong. Under the instruction of their boss. Is it there that my reality is found. Is it there that my reality is constructed?
I live, observe and fall. Fall under the maze of desires.
Work. And spend the money to fulfil them. Spend my hours, my minutes, my energy, my nutrients, my blood, my self…To feed into the manufactured stories. To feed into the inspiration of others. To continue in the maze. Is this the way?