Letter to the Bank #50

Dear BM,

I keep writing in hopes of discovering I am not alone. But you never answer my letters. I persist because I have hope. I’m a hopeful pessimist. Also you not responding allows me to speak my mind. Here is my latest thought:

The institution of banking as we know it has had it’s day. I do wonder what you observe from the inside though— do you see fine marble columns that bolster a sense of security—or do you see decay? Do you notice the gilt work (as it were) or the guilt, that insidious virus, working its way into the fabric of your networks, despite all efforts on the part of your guilty peers to ignore, sideline or deny that any such thing exists, or would even have reason to exist as all that they do is above board and beyond reproach?

So it is that I find myself standing on the pulse of my local branch, the sunlight streaming through that splendid rose window setting my hair aflame. I hold on like some heroic sailor going down with his ship. Then I hesitate. Is this how I want to go? Do I lash myself to your mast and keep making those massive interest payments to your floundering institution, into that leprechaun pot of gold you so cherish? Or do I jump ship, abandon my obligations, and attempt to swim all the way to the shore? The latter feels no less noble these days. This life of indentured servitude in a society so batty it can’t tell its head from its toes doesn’t ring right. I’d like to try something else for a while, somewhere else, somewhere off the grid where it is warm and the life is a simple one. I loved Robinson Crusoe when I was a kid!

Best regards,

Art Witherkay

Admit it. You enjoy my letters. Without them you’d be terribly out of touch with how the other half, rather the other 90%, think.