Protest.

 

I heard a rumour that all the really ‘cool’ people will be at the protest, the protest where you had to be, it was in a square with that nice looking little coffee bar, full of laptop warriors and baristas with art school backgrounds.

The protest went well, we all shouted what the problem was with that ‘thing’ it was about, then we rounded it off with a fair trade Latté served by a spotted minimum wager, in the bar where the wifi is perfect. 

The anarchists had a good turn-out I felt, some old commie with hammer and sickle badge was selling ‘class war’ coasters, the gays were out in numbers, there was some tensions between the Trans and the Feminists, but  generally all stayed peaceful.

On the way home I was feeling ecstatic I treated myself to a new T-shirt the guy with the stall was selling, a percentage of the profit was going to a project in Africa, where ironically the T-shirt will be heading soon in some landfill. I shouldn’t wear T-shirts with slogans at my age, I shouldn’t even have slogans, or ideas let alone ideals. My generation needs to just ‘go away’ I heard some multicoloured hair girl say. 

But it was a good day, and I went home, alone, as I had left. Then the confusion popped it’s little head up. The certainties that had pepped me up at the protest fell away, the ‘hypocrites guilt’ hit home. I switched on the telly for the news , maybe I was filmed at the demo, proof that all ages were there, but there was no mention, for the media it had never happend. 

Just some politician convincing the couch spuds that it is in their best interest to tighten their belts, “no belts needed for tracksuits” I thought.

The ‘what’s it all about?’ question went round and round in my head again  while I watched ‘celebrity chefs’ , (“we actually sit and watch people who can’t  cook, cooking meals we probably couldn’t afford, or enjoy I mean what the actual F*** is going on?”). 

An hour watching telly-more fat on the belly. 

We lose ourselves watching what is presented as being ‘ real life’. I doubt if there will be any celebrity chefs down the food bank tommorow morning. 

‘Should I be ‘making something’ of my life? If so why? and more so what? If I  just sit at home and watch television all day or ‘doom scroll’ the smart phone I wouldn’t be harming anyone, this life could come and go, no effort’. 

Another week gone by, waiting for the delivery of stuff I think I need, getting by on beans on toast and the occasional egg. I walked back down to the square where the protest had been, no history made here, the badge and flag stalls were gone, making way for the homeless and the addicted to reclaim their space. The barrista gave me a strange look, I was still wearing the black t-shirt with ‘call to arms slogan’, “That’s so last week man, living in the past, move on, what do you want?” “A latté “ I said, but meaning I need anything, anything that would give meaning. Anything that would help me stop thinking or give me a cause. 

The coffee was ‘fair trade’, I gave money and got coffee in return, fair. 

On the way out I told the Barrista that I hadn’t “seen anyone with a man bun since last summer, move on”. He smiled with the arrogance of somebody convinced that he is probably going to be the next big ‘thing’ the next ‘celeb’ the next person who ‘knows’, where in reality, the beggars outside are saving a place on the bench for when his bubble bursts, when the Barrista gets old and goes from ‘Latté and Chai tea’ deals to free hand outs at the church. 

This is it ,

where I live, 

what it’s become, 

thinking we have it all,

‘it’ being none.