I don’t want to be a zombie.

I don’t want to be a zombie. Dragging my feet numbly through the shopping mall.

I don’t want to be a zombie. Clocking in and clocking out and clocking in and clocking out and in and out and in and out.

Until one day I clock out for good and all I have to look back on is my zombie life.

Anesthetized.

I don’t want to live a zombie life filled with nothing but things. Things left behind for another zombie to make use of. Things that only weigh you down.

I don’t want to live a zombie life filled with things I said just to sound right and fit in. Afraid that my ideas, revelations, fears might make other zombies discombobulate.

I don’t want to live a zombie life filled with dreams for someone else’s happiness but my own.

I don’t want to be a zombie, accepting with icicle coldness the world the way it is. I don’t want to be a zombie, who believes the media and corrupt politicians and systems of repression. I don’t want to be a zombie who hands over their power and creativity and lust to other zombies who chew it up and spit it back out in the form of dollar dollar bills and tangibleplasticwowthatsanicecarcraaaaaap.

I don’t want to be a zombie feeling nothing but time passing on by. I don’t want to be a zombie who passes time by living a lie. I don’t want to be a zombie who is too afraid to write the story of their own life, preferring to read the manuals of other zombies. I don’t want to be a zombie tracing someone else’s footsteps, getting lost in another zombies shadow. I don’t want to be a zombie who is afraid to bite and scream and yell ‘I don’t know but will you help me’.

I don’t want to be a zombie who doesn’t feel deeply the great expanse of emotions that like electricity coarse up and down and swirl around taking me on a constant ride. I don’t want to be a zombie who doesn’t know that under all the feelings is the essence of my being which is always going to be alright, filled with eternal love, stronger than any office wall, more valuable than any formal certificate of  ‘knowledge’ and mysterious like that moment when you stepped onto this stage.

I don’t want to be a zombie who fits into a sterile mold. I don’t want to be zombie, arms outstretched, always grasping for what?

I don’t want to be a zombie with a preconceived notion of a prepackaged personality of a preplanned destiny doomed to pre think everything and let moments of grace and the present slip through my zombie fingers.

I don’t want to be a zombie with planned responses to those uncomfortable questions with shields of armour against letting you see what it is I really yearn, feel, think.

I don’t want to be a zombie who doesn’t fumble again and again.

I don’t want to be a zombie, tramping on the earth with heedlessness. Unaware that everything is interconnected and Gaia alive. I don’t want to be a zombie who isn’t willing to fight.

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