Arbitrary
I subconsciously interrogate this feeling — these vexations, of sadness, of disappointment — that all emanate from the same source: racial capitalism. The core at which all efforts are made in order to survive succeed the necessity to probe the essence of time — all of which feels as though it was stolen.
Five days a week of work and I return to a place of feeling like the day has already ended, but has it really? If this is so, then the end of a day feels like skies, the momentum, the very shadow that follows my back, is blurred away. Tomorrow is suddenly the only thing to look forward to, but even then, does the day move forward, or am I left to interrogate the remaining hours of yesterday? My inner child feels the most vulgar; he feels tricked — upset, exclaiming,
“That’s it?
I have nothing for him but to fall asleep in the later hours of the next day. It is when I struggle to sleep at three in the morning that my inner child doesn’t feel cheated — my adult body suffers the rest of the way. The only thing that feels “real” are the properties of the nihilistic capitalist system — all of what people do — a force of habit, is the only correspondence to said system. It’s all arbitrary.
It garnishes my soul of its inherent value. I am in debt — the capitalist declares my credit decline. If I do not do my taxes, I will be imprisoned. If I am not working — I am worthless until I am employed. How quickly does my worth, my value in the capitalist’s mind flicker like a malfunctioning bulb. How miserable can one’s life get from being taught to live this way — choosing that this is the only way to live? I am financially illiterate and I probably will be until I die.
To what end would this being so-called literate in this sense matter when the concept of financial literacy is contingent upon an unceasing accumulation of capital? If you and I are looking to make ends meet, then capital is fleeting — it comes and goes. I have no plans to pay my debt off because I don’t have the means.
The crossroads between the individual acceptance of the meaninglessness of the capitalist system and the angst-driven inclination to act in accordance with the properties of the system is fragile because the more I learn I’m just a vessel in it — and contrarily my worth, my value is inherent, the more I know capitalism does not matter. It’s an arbitrary system with arbitrary properties — a daily hindrance.
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Patrick Jonathan Derilus is an American-born Haitian independent writer and Goodreads author who resides in Brooklyn, New York. Their pronouns are he, him, his, or they, them, theirs. They write poetry, short stories, and essays. They are published in RaceBaitR, Rabble Literature Magazine, Cutlines Press Magazine, Linden Avenue Literature Magazine, and elsewhere. They are the author of their 2016 anthological work, Thriving Fire: Musings of A Poet’s Odyssey and newest ebook, Perennial: a collection of letters.
