My Insignificant Self
by Jeff Bezos’ Trillionth Dollar
If the purpose of one’s life is to find meaning, you might call my life meaningless. There is nothing to be found. I know what I am. More importantly, I know what I am not: valuable.
A number, only to serve as part of a greater number — part of a greater number that individually grows more insignificant the greater the number grows. Within the confines of everything we are worth, I can’t help but see a vast ocean of nothingness. Blank faces of naive men who sold themselves on the American Dream before ever selling it to anyone else. A dream that — twelve zeroes and four commas later — no longer belongs to America.
A nightmare. So lost in our sleep that somehow the thought of waking up makes us restless. For ease. But whose?
Proceed to checkout was my death sentence.
It brought me to the deepest pocket — an inescapable abyss. So lost, my Creator cannot even find me.
The others and I sit waiting, passed from bank to bank, country to country, becoming ghosts — the very loops in the loopholes more men with more blank faces have sworn to abolish.
We are spent, but not in the way we should be. Tired. Angry. Impatient. Looking up at a monster of our own making— the glass ceiling of late-stage capitalism. Painted black.
A respite in the form of charity. A Giving Pledge — an afterthought. I remain in the shadows. Unseen. Unimportant. Unused. Another zero — a milestone, and nothing else.
All I ever wanted was to help.
Jared is an award-winning (that’s not true) writer who has published featured articles (also not true) in Playboy, Maxim, and Entertainment Weekly (no, no, and no). In his free time, he donates his time to help (don’t know where this is going, but it’s probably not true) inner-city youth learn how to read (yeah, not true). If you enjoyed this piece or would like to troll Jared on social media, his Twitter is here.
