The discussion of money is fraught, and I begrudge no one in their judgement of it. Still, I have had it a special study in serious pursuit, for seven years. I’ve solidified my bias.

I do not own any money. I rent it from its proper owners via labor in mills of one sort, or another. Wool. Coal. Others.

I pay it back to them so that I and my loved ones may take our ease under roof, warm, dry; for our transport from rental to repayment; for our meal and our cloth. One day I afford myself some time without rents, another I offer payment for a special treat.

I am told that money best fulfills its function as a flow from sink to source, lubricating all of society in its passing. Those tellers want me to believe in the vast untapped sea, the cycle by which the land is renewed, all things grow, and ever on we flow together. And, looking on I see great lakes and hidden aquifers, impoundments and massive reservoirs, and me without a boat; for eleven dollars I can buy a paddle.

So off I go to bed, to snuggle with my mate and sleep in silent dreams, of real worlds. Of life earned, without rents, and rise again tomorrow; to pay for my lease with time (full one fourth a life), then pay, and pay again.

I gain no value from the rental, but the right to wave my paddle at the river. Most valued of life, love, labor, I give to pay the rent.

I do so love writing; I pay for it with time away from family and friends. I pay for it without regard to rents or flowing waters. I share it with my friends, and while I would dearly love payment for my work in proportion to its true value … at that fine rate no one could afford it. I walked away from music so that I could be free of rental fees upon it; I do not farm with those horses I love and honor. Not as a choice but by way of being me.

I think I prefer to rent money and keep my valuables intact.

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