I am the prodigal son of a world that has lost its way. Money tumbles out of my hands the way dried leafs dance with fall breezes. I trail a line of entertainment down the width of a 20, roll it, twist off the ends, kiss the tip, and light the other end. Turning $100 into smoke is nothing; women, cell phone plans, and traveling paraphernalia are my current drugs of choice. Wastefulness is more addicting than heroine, more luxurious than cocaine, and its consequences are endured by people I’ll never meet. So, my days are spent strung out on guilt free excesses. I inhale extravagance, hold it in my lungs until they burst exhaling the American dream. The price for my addiction; an eternity spent in an alienated purgatory where everything is for sale but nothing is free. I can’t escape my primal drift towards a prosperity gospel. I fein for any innovation that puts the power of God in my hands; I want everything to be easier, faster, bigger, and stronger. My race, culture, and parents have provided me with the birthright of a god. Becoming a millionaire is a matter of good choices, a pinch of hard work, and time. I am the begotten son of generations of exploitation, oppression, and inequality. This is my blood diamond; it is my gift, it is my curse.
My salvation has taken the form of a fragile secret, an idea so delicate that it would weather if spoken out load. It is a hope rooted in causality; that by changing the external I can change the internal. It is a forgotten rite of passage, the idea of an internal jubilee, it is my hope of a cultural baptism. Let my eyes be open to witness an old man, a diseased man, a decaying corpse, and an ascetic. I am afraid of dukkha, but I know that it must bathe my soul in order to shed the expectations of king and become the man the world needs me to be.