In the square of my soul, throngs of vendors hawk their distractions. My desires are children hyped on sugar and afflicted with ADHD. They dash from one booth to the next, wasteful and heedless, caring only for gratification at whatever cost. Will and Conscience, their feckless chaperones, wait indolently for the inevitable crash and burn, too comfortable and lazy to exercise loving discipline.
The thing is. Those vendors should not even be there. I know the weakness of my executive branch. I know the terrible energy of my spendthrift desires. And yet I have distributed business permits for every entrepreneur that beats at my city gate.
I need a new foreign policy. My inner sanctum should not be a market. It should be a garden, painstakingly planned and tilled, irrigated by the fountain of living water, each plant selected for the fruit it will bear, seeded and tirelessly tended. What an outlet for the energies of my desires! And what a playground!
This is not to say that trading with the world is forbidden. Where else am I to find the materials for this garden? And, after all, half of the joy in a garden is that of inviting others to revel in its beauty and taste its bounty.
What I mean is that the soul should not be a center of commerce. It should be a place of beauty and joyous labor. Envoys should venture forth into the world to do business, rather than wait for the world to intrude. Invitations should be extended to other souls to rest awhile and find refreshment, an escape from gaudiness and artificiality.
The time has come to cast out the market, to begin this transformation.
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