People hate food.
I don’t really know when it started: maybe with TV dinners; maybe with the microwave; there’s no way to know for sure.
Eating is one of the most primal and intimate acts we can engage in; to break bread together has been seen as a deeply and symbolic act for time beyond reckoning; in doing so we literally accept into our bodies that which sustains us: without food we are nothing.
So what does it say, when we begin to attack food itself?
I can safely guess that most of you have never eaten fruit off the vine (and no, visiting a farm somewhere once doesn’t count); there is something unimaginably potent in living close enough to the world that one can touch the very source of one’s sustenance. I do not own the tree, and yet it serves me; in turn I serve it, if I obey the ancient ways and perform my body in the capacity for which it was designed.
In plainer terms: apples taste good so I’ll eat them and shit out the seeds somewhere else — or at least discard the core further from the tree than it might have fallen itself (ever wondered at the near-compulsive urge to throw apple cores after eating?).
This is called an exchange, and it is one of innumerably many which hold this world together.
Apples bought in supermarkets are sterile; even if you plant every seed with the greatest of care, the likelihood of one sprouting is virtually zero. You have enslaved the tree, for you no longer serve it, although it continues to serve you — and this is the most cold and cruel of servitude, for you lay hands never upon your slaves, not in care, not in harvest, and not to lay it down when its use to you ends.
As you chain yourselves together tighter and tighter, you squeeze out the essence of life; among this essence is found the love of food (not gluttony, or the desire to gorge, but a love of food for its own sake; the art, the sustenance, and the bonding it represents), which is so utterly essential to loving one’s self — how can you love something composed of things you hate?
You do not love yourselves, for you know that your lives are empty and your spirits have crumbled to dust — and dust is all you eat: dust brought to the golem’s semblance of life by the concoctions of those modern alchemists who have transformed figurative lead into literal fools’ gold which brings the promise of good fare to the palate, while distracting the tongue and betraying the belly of those who eat them — and all of you do:
The phrases “natural flavours” and “artificial flavours” are functionally identical in meaning, and both are found in virtually everything you can buy at any store. Without them, without the dyes and additives which lend colour and texture, and without the artificially re-introduced nutrients, what you eat every day would be similar to shredded card board — actually, it is card board:
Little things like actually using “food” in items sold to be eaten is going out of fashion; a towering majority of commercial food products use cellulose — wood pulp — instead of, oh, flour.
It pains me, and shames me on behalf of the human race, that I must remind you that wood is not food, and neither is gold; it is bizarre and horrific that you have retained your gluttony while apprehending a hatred of that which you eat.
No wonder you are fat: no amount of food can ever fill the hole where your soul might have been.