They say money can’t buy happiness, but somehow, it always seems to afford better lighting, quieter neighbors, and nicer problems. Nobody cries quite the same way in a penthouse. Tragedy, after all, feels different when your tears dry faster on Egyptian cotton.
The obsession with money isn’t about wealth—it’s about options. The ability to say no without consequence. To walk away, to indulge, to disappear. The rich aren’t free because they have money; they’re free because they no longer have to explain themselves.
And yet, isn’t there something spectacularly pathetic about the whole performance? People building entire identities around the accumulation of numbers they’ll never spend. The ones who say "money doesn’t matter" always seem to have it. The ones who say "money isn’t everything" just haven’t been offered enough.
Hmm. The irony right!! Those who chase wealth the hardest rarely enjoy it. Too busy looking over their shoulder, convinced the real prize is always a little further ahead. It’s a treadmill powered by anxiety—run fast enough, and maybe you’ll escape the quiet terror of being ordinary.
But it only get funnier and maybe even darker!
Money is the only religion with believers at every level. The poor pray for it, the rich worship it, and everyone in between fears its absence like original sin. And like all great faiths, it promises salvation—just not yet. Always after the next deal, the next promotion, the next crisis averted.
Meanwhile, death waits, unimpressed.
❤️❤️❤️