Theirs is a pervading vision. A search for stability. For robustness and reliability. For the sameness of days.
Theirs is a search for more. For more of the same. And with greater regularity, ease and convenience.
The long plod of the middle of the road.
More Coldplay. More imitation Italian sausage. More health spas and house decorators and window shopping. More wine from countries they've never visited. More art without a message.
More safe choices. More safe choices.
MOR... is less.
Stability isn't always a virtue. It is homeostasis.
We sit, 72 monkeys in a speeding metal tube. A few droop-shouldered apes linger between the seats. There is the hustle of workday shoes at every stop.
72 monkeys, castrated. We castrate ourselves. We pretend that we're not sexual beings. That we don't have passions, and dreams, and a screaming fire to create. And to destruct. We wash it down with a white bread and cheese sandwich. We stare at the news and forget what we've read.
And... I've forgotten how to smell.
Some of us have adventurous genes. Maybe this leads us to unhappiness. A long aching for something that can never be fulfilled. But it's better to search the brambles at the side of the road for one chance berry. At least it keeps us from sleepwalking into oncoming traffic.