I can feel the dying embers of my bank account haunting me.
That fear I have of having no money is starting to find its thwarted gravelled voice.
I know I have more opportunities than many, due to my so called first world citizenship. But the fear remains, of failing, probably more so then, of starving. Of not having the money to give a life of love and happiness to my children. Of not ever acheiving even a handful of the things I dreamed of. So it is my arrogant ego then, my fear of becoming a desperate poverty stricken tracksuit pant wearing, bad haircut having outer suburb single mother. I may as well start smoking.
Money won't cure my shallowness in wanting to defy a stereotype that can only touch me if I permit it.
And I'm not one to chase money. In reality though, we all chase it. According to some grand scheme devised by a number of uber-wealthy leacherous soulless greedy world dominators. So say the conspiracy theorists.
Do I really have no individual power? Am I a mind numbed slave to a system I can't even see. Stepping blindly down the predetermined path for me. Exchanging my one shot at life for cash. If that's the case, it makes me sad.
And so does my bank account. Like I'm looking over my shoulder when I step out the door. Life costs. I can't say yes freely, there are sums to do first in my head. I see now why my grandparents were so different in spirit, they lived through a major economic depression and it changed them.
Again, I come back, to finding the light of life within me as my guide. I must shirk this heavy cloak of desire for material wealth and remember the simple aspirations. Remember my grandmother's resourceful hands fixing all manner of broken things.
Remember the beauty of inexpensive rituals and games. Remember I no longer have to bear witness to my naive oppressor. Remember that the freedom to be yourself, even if that self is ill-defined, shaky, brittle, running on an oily rag, is better than living a life in a state of constant negativity and a vigilant resistance to your attempts at self expression. Or have I just swapped one kind of oppressor to a more systematic one?
I'll turn my back on that thought. Knife hand strike through its threatening heart. I will be budget conscious. And fabulous. And jump and jump and not be worried about always landing on my feet.