The non-linear aDventure$ of Greg SandusKy No. 3

Adjoining the tree lined street was a fallow corn field, which was enjoying a respite from the machinations of man and the rapacious profit lust of the modern farming conglomerates. Despite the relentless pursuit of profit and the desire to satisfy shareholders—for feeding a portion of the populace was but an irksome byproduct—the powers that be determined that even nature needed rest. Oh, rest for the land, though hardly an act of mercy. In seasons past, the land was worked continuously, in a manner contrary to its health and to the very logic of nature. And they had reaped bitterness from toiling in faltering soil. The land was rested, but only because it was allowed. In a corporate boardroom far away, board members, long distanced from the earth, made these decisions. It was permitted. It was tolerated. As for the workers? Oh, by no means would they partake of rest. While the field lie fallow, the cogs in the industrial machine were occupied in other labors; the docks, the mines, the power plants, amongst other enterprises.

Greg gave this a measure of thought, but did not allow it to retard his contentment. The realities of the current regime were certainly just such—realities. And his own pause from his labor was of such a brevity that it was lamentable in its own right. He wasn’t in the office, though. His reality was his own, and he intended to infuse it with as much purpose as he could summon. He strode behind his lengthening shadow cast ahead on the pavement, and tuned his ears to the chirping and singing of birds that fluttered and zipped from tree to tree as they raised a hymn to the beauty of creation. The sun would soon set; satisfied with its part in sustaining life for yet another day. Hopefully tomorrow will come.