The old Marxist adage goes that the bourgeoisie own the factors of production, but yeah fuck that. I transcend the capitalist mode of production. Proletariat or not, I own the factors of self-destruction. Standing one hundred and thirty two metres above the cold hard concrete void deck, laced with contrived plots of ixora, watered twice weekly by Bangladeshi town council gardeners, I am beyond Marx, Keynes and the Hegelian dialectic.
One hundred and thirty metres roughly translates from forty storeys of three point three metres from floor to ceiling and ceiling to floor. From the roof to the ground takes a mere 5.19 seconds, assuming I’m an average 60 kilo resident. In those 5.16 seconds where I would hurtle pass the evening lives of 240 households at the maximum speed of 183 klicks per hour, I have barely enough time to recite the first portion of the national pledge. All these forty storey edifices of the housing development board have aided in the agency of self-immolation. They are expressways for the living to the world of the dead. Toll free, without speed limits. To an eternity of death, a slumber secure and undisturbed, beyond reproach and beyond clouds.
From that height I saw a sea of amber lights of smouldering joss sticks and burning piles of incense paper. Plumes of choking smoke that encroaches and then engulfs. They said the smoke rising to the clouds is a bearer of the incinerated offerings and wishes of the living to the dead. I say the dead are better left undisturbed.
When I took a step out of the fortieth storey into the air, I knew it was apropos of smouldering joss sticks.