It’s the year 1492 and you’re sitting in the crow’s nest of a ship. The winds sweeps seawater onto the deck but nobody sweeps it off at night. There’s nothing to see all around as a thick oily fog blocks your view. It’s midnight and the only lights you can see are the moon and the tiny light out of the captain’s cabin. You aren’t surprised he’s awake at this time of the night. He should be. For weeks now empty words are all he’s had offer and land has been stubbornly not on the horizon. The cook says the galley is almost empty. There is very little fresh water left and the oranges finished weeks ago. You run your tongue over the scurvy sores on your gums. Yes, there will be mutiny. Very soon. You wrap your cloak tighter around your self as you go back to sleep.
Hours later, a birds’s squall wakes you. Those damn albatrosses. they’re only good for shitting everywhere, and guess who has to mop the deck? The mist dispels as the sun begins it’s upward climb. You spot something on the horizon. It’s large and brown. Probably another stupid rock. You pick up your periscope to look. Unbelievable, it is land. You scramble down to the bell screaming “Land Ahoy!”. Tears of joy fall down your face as the captain hugs you and all the crew begins to rejoice. It is 1492 and you have just discovered America*.
This generation’s midlife crisis will be epic. Looking back we have centuries of design, invention and scientific discovery. From the invention of wheel to the man’s first steps on the moon. Great happenings. What do all these things have in common? They all happened before our time. Our ancestors really lived. Can you imagine being the first astronaut. Science has told us that it’s really space out there but deep down we still feel it is heaven. You’re the first ever person to find out. Will the sun be a hunk of burning chemical rock or will you glimpse the very face of God?
It’s all downhill from there. What we have is a generation-wide wish for drugs, booze and sex. Today you made it rain on them hoes. The DJ stopped the music and all the club watched as the crate of expensive champagne made it’s way to your table. The boys hated, the girls watched. You are a hero. Or are you?
For the girls, Ten thousand followers on Instagram. Fifteen thousand on Twitter. You post a picture and seconds later three thousand people tell you they like it. Yes we’re here Sara, Yes, we know you exist Sara. Yes, we love you Sara. A thousand voices in the digital background. Buzzing gently. Telling you you aren’t alone. Telling you, you matter. But do they really know you? Know how you feel. What you’re favourite colour is? What kind of ice cream you like when you’re sick? Why you like knock knock jokes? Do they know why you need their love so much? How empty you feel inside? Do they know you?
For the guys. You’ve chased her, you’ve got her. Money, Power, Respect. She’s very pretty. Peruvian hair. Figure 8. Boobs like the front of a VW beetle and an ass to absolutely die for. She’s sitting on your lap, smiling sweetly, giggling at every thing you say. She’s cute. Buzz. You get a call from home.It’s bad news. Your dog is dead. You feel bad. She just sits there looking at you. Hasn’t a clue what to say. She doesn’t really know you. And you’ve been dating for 5 months. True love eh?
We’re the scrapbook people. The cool haircut from a T.I video. The raised eyebrow from a the Rock movie. The badass attitude from a Vin Diesel movie, the witty dialogue from a popular sitcom. Everything you say and think are recycled from packaged and pre-processed Hollywood B.S. Not a drop of originality anywhere. This from the generation who invented #RealNigga tweets.
Mandela died yesterday. You’ll be in a club this evening. Before you go let me ask you. What will you be remembered for? Dudes, How many bottles of champagne you popped? How many P you set? The ladies, your Mad Twerk Skills? How you’re the baddest bitch on the block?
I propose a bet. Pick up a pen and write something. Ten Lines. That’s all. If you can write ten lines that are completely yours. Nobody else’s words. Then by all means go clubbing. I’ll be happy for you. If not, Skip today’s balling. Mourn for Madiba and think about how you can make the world a better place.
* Yes Killjoys, I know it wasn’t America, humour me..