Enough. Enough of those early morning wake-up alarms that set in motion the rest of a day of stifled yawns. Enough. Enough of those maddening dashes to keep an appointment, meet a deadline…
Enough of the traffic woes, the long queues wherever you go. Enough of the arrogance of the ‘Me, the master of this turf’ security guards, the nonchalance of the “service(?)” staff, the haughtiness of otherwise pretty secretaries, the oh-why-do-you-disturb-me impatience of otherwise stunning receptionists…
Enough of dashing PR girls, who lure you into media events to enhance their head count, and once there, turn away to humour the “sponors…” Enough of “sponsors” who seem to say: “You miserable creatures, why are you born, amn’t I enough to cover the world…”
Enough of celebrities whose airs make you throw up in disgust…; enough of people who sell me Feng Shui; enough of motivators who fleece your money selling empty words that are forgotten soon after…
Enough.
I am retiring to my farmhouse. The one I will own as soon as I win the big raffle, and what about that 120 kg of gold, should I rather look for a locker facility? I will have all the money in the world to pay all the bills but then, I will live with just my loved ones so far away the bills won’t reach me.
I will not take phone calls; I will not return missed calls. I don’t need cable but I need all the DVDs of all the films I have always loved. I need lots of music and lot of sheep that will graze in my green pastures and I will watch them reading Calvin and Hobbes and nothing else…
I will watch the rains, write a novel, read it myself, write another one and burn it all in a bonfire and gaze at the stars. I won’t allow strangers into my farmland; I will set up observation towers. I will farm – that is exercise too, I need to keep fit, but then I am going to be healthy and hale, anyway.
My wife might still have to cook but she will soon start to love it because the plates come clean automatically and I am lavishing her with praises on what a great cook she is.
I won’t bother to wash clothes; I will dig out new ones from my well-stocked basement. There is enough down there for many generations to live and everything is beyond expiry.
So I have nothing to do, no deadlines to meet, no queues to live with, no traffic to beat, except vegetate, and so I get up one fine morning, shut down the farmhouse, walk down to the distant bus-station, rush to my little flat in Dubai, wind up the clock, and wake up to the early morning alarms that will set in motion the rest of a day of stifled yawns…
We live to dream.
(Afterthought: I would still like to keep the gold, and the farmhouse, and the…)
