There's nothing special about my greedy utopian dream: I'm not off grid, or more ecco' friendly; I still order luxury goods from overseas, hoard, engage in cliques, use the internet, dream about my own bit of land, claim any benefits I can.
I use the same drugs, minerals, roads, hospitals, banks, and I pollute the same air; with the same stink of self righteous elitism; because just like everyone else; I am unique!
There is nowhere off grid, our human place in the world is a human construct a reserve ffs
The morning broke upon the valley, light illuminating their home, smoke curling from the top of the tipi. Symbols of omens dancing across the rays of light. The birds awoke, their song in time with the murmuring of the stream.
They slept on inside; Naked bodies pressed tight for warmth and comfort. Wrapped in fur hides and each other. Dreaming of plentiful game and an abundance of children. The dogs stretched and sniffed for bones and game. The man stretched and sniffed for her, burying his face into her long hair, warm with the scent of skin and flowers and dreams.
He pulled her tight against him, his hands grasping at her curves as one does for the fleeting memories of a dream. He slid himself between her legs and pushed into her deeply, she awakening with a soft gasp, her eyes sleepy yet alert, her body willing against his, her kiss upon his lips tasting of the morning dew. She opened herself beneath him as a flower opens itself to the sun, and he filled her with his seed. His skin smelled of fur and smoke and his eyes promised her a child.
if it were up to me (and it isn't, it's up to dice) the universe would be made of a mixture of purples and half-aware blues, separated only by the sardonic coolness of hologram grids. doctor doctor! doctor doctor! focus on the wound the sun is inflicting upon the ocean riddled with streaks of white, i'm losing the saline in its scent and all that remains (all that shall remain) is reddened sand. furthermore i would allow bamboo to grow anywhere it pleases not a **** but a gift from the ground below not messing up floor plans but rather improving them in a very experimental way you wouldn't understand the architecture is okay the sky is okay the rain is full of acid but it's otherwise okay oh please get up off the ground i need to clean it
Just another person on the grid...Where is my place, where do I fit? What if I don't I rather be known in a place that I have to establish..musician to Artist to maverick...marvels created from magic..I've never cared for the lavish...gold, diamonds nor fashion...I rather share with the masses...let's form a generation that classes no rules or structure, just life from pure passion...
Run away to a foreign country, one with plush yellow green pastures. The grasses hiss soothingly as the breeze brushes them down this way and that. My home, a simple one room shelter built atop a broad and wise dark leafed tree who has welcomed me to its strong open arms. The skirt of my plain brown dress tickles the tops of my feet as I step down onto the soft soily earth.
There are no people here but I am not alone. The wind is here to lift the overflow of thoughts from my ever questioning mind and the water is here to soothe me and commiserate like an old companion purified from the complications of humanity. The dirt is my mother and my father, providing for me. Nurtures me with its succulent plants and cups its hands so that I might take a few small fish from them now and then.
A spotted sun perch hangs behind me as I perambulate meditatively. I see a few delicate vibrant blossoms on the side of my arborous home. They chime a brilliant tune that I will later compose onto a clay canvas. The afternoon is spent cleaning the small token and then toasting it over fire. I tend the patches of nearly wild vegetables and fruits. The most desirable ones plucked for my plate.
Guardian stars begin to dot the serenity of a dazzling dusk that demands my awe. I am aware of my tiny existence and its grand insignificance yet at the same moment I feel as though I was specially chosen by the cosmos to witness this perfect event. An intoxicating shiver grips me suddenly as a gust flits up my spine and through the back of my hair. Slowly it falls and the lulling chirps of a million violinists begin to play to one another. An admiring amphibian adrift the pond lilies relinquishes some commending croaks.
As the dark begins to settle in I climb to my aerial cottage to lie down. The rustling of my nest-bed reminds my neighbor owl of the time and she hoots appreciatively before flying off to begin her hunts. The splendid nocturnal symphony soon sends me to my dreams.