I went to the dreaded suburbs today where I witnessed the sickly pulsing heart of consumerism. In each store, my nose was infiltrated by a thousand artificial candy-like smells, and my eyes blinded by cheap, gleaming newnesses. The green chips I enjoyed as a youth were for sale and stuffed animals outstretched their arms for a fleeting love which usually ends in disregard and dumpsters. Expensive looking polyester clothes tempted me. People’s bodies rushed through the aisles, madly wishing to find that special something to satisfy a superficial desire. MADE IN INDIA! MADE IN THAILAND! MADE BY HAND! knickknacks boasted as if we were in a real marketplace of cheerful-shouting merchants and passersby. In a warehouse brimming with stuff, everything was empty. I bought nothing.

In the grocery store was chaos. Hundreds of packaged bird carcasses labeled ORGANIC, FRESH, a seven foot tall display of soy sauces leered at and confused shoppers, endless cakes and beverages, nuts, vegetables too many goods for any population to realistically enjoy. Some produce was actively ripening on sets, soon to be destroyed and wasted. Instead of joining the masses in stuffing my cart with innumerable goods, I wanted to scream and shatter the towering wall of pasta bags and tomato sauces. I wanted to hold someone and ask, “Why are we doing this to ourselves? When will we wake up?”.

It was in the final store that I found a brief moment of happiness and it was not of the store-bought kind. I was greeted tiredly by a grey-haired woman whom I recognized. Christine! No coin could purchase the feeling I felt when embracing my former co-worker. We chatted, exchanged contacts, and then I left shortly after. My mood was instantly elevated as if I stumbled upon some rare gem in the dirty asphalt streets.