What if we are all items stacked on shelves in a shopping mall? What item would you be – an electronic gadget, a gold-plated Rolex wristwatch, an expensive clothing or a toilet paper? Would the merchant who purchased you be glad he did or would you be his source of pain and regret? What would be the shoppers’ reaction when they look on you for the first time? Would they be concerned about your usefulness, your durability, utility or your price? Would they be willing to pay whatsoever is written on the price tag clipped on your chest or would there be an argle-bargle between them and the guy at the counter and would they haggle with disgust and a somewhat stench of anger to the last penny that could be squeezed out of you?
Would you be so attractive so it seems almost impossible to take their eyes off you that they would pay whatsoever is attached on you without raising a brow? Would they get home with you only to discover that you were nothing more than just an attractive container? The beautiful shadow of an ugly image – so lovely and beautifully packaged; void of contents to match with your outward appearance. Would you be that product that would lies on the shelf until it expires withal, without and within, the one who ends up in the pile of garbage, untouched? Moreover, if the choice of the product to become were yours to make, what product would you be? How much would you place on you? What would be your worth?
What if we are all different clothes worn on mannequins, lined side by side in a boutique? What if we were clothes spread on the floor in an open market? The seller is in a corner somewhere in Ariaria market – Aba, holding a bell in his left hand and gesturing onlookers with his right with wooing melodious songs pouring out of his oral cavity blended with charming smiles. What cloth would you be? Would you be a skimpy dress glittering in the sunshine, courtesy of the shiny studs glued to every inch of its fabric? What stuff would you be made of – a fabric made from ramie, cotton, flax, wool, or silk? If your mannequin were a living being, how would he feel clothed by you? Take a deep breath and let your imaginations go wild and as wide as it could get. I ask again, what stuff would you be made of? Would you be worn in front of a brothel by whores seeking to sell something that cannot be bought? Would you adorn Her Majesty during the day and be the intimate apparel she wears in bed waiting for the love of her life to arrive from his daily duties on the throne? Would curvy models feel sexy in you by the poolside or at the beach or would you be rather worn on the runway amidst round of applauses and clicks and flashes from the photojournalists’ cameras? Maybe you would be the tuxedos and ball gowns worn to cocktail parties, and formal gatherings. On the other hand, would you be a covering for nakedness or the reason to get naked?
Would you be paraded on holy grounds or would you be an anathema therein? Would you be adornment – the pride of queens or would you be the piece always underfoot, rag when the floor is wet? Would you be so important, that lives could go extinct without you? Would you be warmth in winter, fleece on cold nights? Moreover, if the choice of the clothing to become were yours to make, what cloth would you rather be? How much would you place on you? What would you worth?
What if we are all comestibles prepared meticulously all day only to be consumed in no more than an hour, never to be seen no more in same shape. What type of food would you be? Here now, gone later, buried in the abdomen of a pot-bellied child stricken with kwashiorkor! What sort of food would you be? What course on the menu would you be, the appetizer or the main course? Would you be the type of food that prepares a bed in the hospital or the food that doubles as a medicine? Same food cost different amount in different restaurants, where are you right now? Your position sometimes increases your worth; again, I ask, where are you right now? Do not get me wrong, I am not referring to your physical position, or am I? You should figure that out.
What principles shape your life? What values define your actions? What foundation is the whole structure of your life built on? Are you an iceberg that has ninety percent of its body buried underwater or an electric pole that has ninety percent on the surface? If your life is the earth’s surface covered with dirt, what would we find when we dig deep into it, gold or more dirt? If the detectives of life investigate yours, what would they find if they punctiliously peruse the intentions behind your actions? Why do you act the way you do – temperament, horoscope, cliché, vogue or deliberate calibrated solid principles?
What are you worth? What is inside your wrap? Are you a tomb, beautiful on the outside – rotten on the inside? Again, I ask, “what are you worth?”
What if your life is a pair of hands, how many other lives would it touch? How many lives does your life touch on a daily basis? How many lives have you positively affected throughout your short stay on earth? If you die today, what would your epitaph read? Good father, loving husband…LIES! Would all the nice words written thereon be a bunch of lies or a pile of exaggerated rhyming phrases? What would an honest eulogy of yours sound like?
What if we all have an opportunity to watch our funerals before we die – would you look forward to yours? Take a moment to write an obituary for yourself and read it aloud in the toilet where it is just you and your white potty; do not forget to try something simple during this little exercise, HONESTY. Permit me to ask, what did your obituary say? No need to answer, it was a rhetorical question!
Does your life make people laugh? Would your death make them cry? Would your demise make people rejoice or would they feel less or un-concerned? What seeds have you sown so far? On the day of harvest, would you storm your field with a basket, a wheelbarrow, or a trailer, or would you lie on your bed wishing you had sown? Do you even have a field or are you that lazy fella who folds his hands waiting for the day everything would be perfect before he works?
What are you worth? Are you the owner of the bus or just the fellow who calls out to passengers but never steps a foot on the bus? Again, I ask. “What are you worth?”
What does your knowledge bank look like? How broke or how rich are you upstairs? “Knowledge is power”, they say. How strong are you?
What inspires you, a good round of sex or one of Celine Dion’s singles? What motivates you? Where do you get your timing? What is the source of your pulse beat? Who is your backbone? When people boast with the names of people they know, whom do you call? Who on earth or heaven do you run to when times are tough? Your worth does not only mean who you are or what you have but also whom you know. Whom do you know? Who and who can vouch for you? Who are your referees?
Look closely, listen carefully, read meticulously – read between the lines and you would realize that I do not liken ones worth to monetary possessions; this is because success is not measured or determined by how much financial structures you have built or amassed. For the worth of an object or product is not determined by its price but its essence, utility and usefulness. What are you worth?
By JOHNWILLIAMS XPLOITS