Outside

Money

When money becomes the measure of everything, life turns into a paid circle.

We measure our time by the size of our pay,
Then spend what we've earned just to buy time away.
We trade every paycheck for dates we desire,
Then pay with more hours to turn the same tire.

Freedom has limits, a rate and a fee,
Each road has a budget for where we can be.
We save for tomorrow, turn page after page,
Not seeing tomorrow has slipped from the stage.

And money, it seems, is just paper we trade,
A measure for things and exchanges we've made.
But measures start choosing the steps that we take,
Then turn into measures of people and fate.

Like coins they keep ringing and fall out of sight,
Fragments of life passing by in their flight.
Money's not thought, though its rustle allures,
Thought isn't money — and how much thought is ours.

We treasure the memories bright moments give us,
And without what we spend, many never would reach us.
But maybe there's more... no, it doesn't seem so —
Coins and banknotes have captured us whole.

We know what a loaf and a house ought to cost,
A ticket, a car, every work-minute lost.
A price feels familiar — a number, a sign,
But value itself never asks for a price.

What's the price of an evening that never took place?
What's a friend worth when they're somewhere far away?
What would we pay just to live it again,
If one day we found ourselves out of the game?

We balance accounts, multiply what remains,
Save something aside for disasters and pain.
But life isn't stored on a card in a bank,
No statement reveals how many days still remain.

We purchase our things with the hours of our lives,
But none of those things can preserve passing time.
And often I wonder, caught up in this scheme:
Do we own all these things — or are we what they own?

A zero past one changes what it can mean,
One zero more changes the weight that we see.
But take all possession away from the sum —
When all numbers are counted, what will remain?

Not poverty — freedom.
Not luxury — success.
Not money — the problem.
But measuring all by its test.

When a tool turns into a principle we serve,
And the means becomes the destination we pursue,
We no longer search — we're in a hurry to live,
Counting when and what we'll be able to buy.

Like coins they keep ringing and fall out of sight,
Fragments of life passing by in their flight.
Money's not thought, though its rustle allures,
Thought isn't money — and how much thought is ours.

We treasure the memories bright moments give us,
And without what we spend, many never would reach us.
But maybe there's more... no, it doesn't seem so —
Coins and banknotes have captured us whole.

We gave time a price by ourselves, long ago,
To make it much easier to split what we own.
But numbers remain under somebody's name,
While time has moved on —
without saying goodbye.