Romanticizing Opulence

I’ve always romanticized the world of opulence. I don’t have a tragic backstory that is at the root of my yearning. My opulence wasn’t fancy dresses and soirees. A world of opulence to me was sitting at a café and working in a big city and being humble as shit about it all.  

As I’m sitting at a café in Brooklyn Heights, the stomping grounds of the quiet luxury types, I’m barely impressed with their lifestyle and even my own.

But when I scroll at night on all my feeds, I’m tempted to worship these people I don’t even know. Their lives are served to me all boxed in and beaten to death. And even though I know that three layers deep, everything I see is bullshit, why do I feel like I’m just the same as all the people I judge, begging at the knees of the world of opulence, “Please please please…”

We’re being fed by that feed. They’re not lying to us, ya know—they named it a feed—right in front of our fresh faces. The endless scroll, the buffet. Serving up multiple reasons as to why your life’s shit and how by doing this, buying this, enhancing this, looking like this can whip your sorry little life into shape. I’m full, not satisfied. Still hungry, searching, looking for a meal.

We’re like fat pigs, rolling around in our graves, paralyzed by it all—Yet I’m still here.