The Complexities of Simplicity

Ah yes so this would be bureaucracy, so good they put the French word for "desk" in it...
I have a feeling that if the end of the world did occur, we probably wouldn't hear about it until a few months later, due to errors in the lines of communication. Or someone forgot to click on "OK."
"Doing" it seems, is out of fashion. So much simpler to think, process and evaluate than "do." An idea? There ought to be a committee to discuss its feasibility.
How many more times (answers on a e-postcard - if it's delivered and not filtered out as spam) will we have to hear that the latest very good idea/technological advance/life-saving drug is ready and waiting to improve the lot of the planet's inhabitants, only we can't use it because it's too expensive to pop out the foil tablet holders?
The decision of monetary value, about how many numbers to put after the pound or dollar sign in your local chemist is determined by - what? who?
Nothing tangible, as the processes that create are given a value by the raw material's/time's value which is determined by, yep, the same process, so...
...is it all a big circle of "i dunno, what do you think?"
If one stockbroker's anxiety can be fed off by the hordes around the world who enter numbers into the computer system that they designed, and add value to that anxiety as a tangible number that then influences everything from health to wealth, then how is this sustainable?
Eventually, there will be a point where nothing can truly be made out of nothing, and value will implode into itself, hopefully forcing a re-think.

Bring it on...

Not quite without an imagined or feigned nonchalence, I found myself thinking recently that what this world needs, as the Joker so rightly pointed out, is an enema.
I'm not sure what form of philosophy this raids, but I have long felt that a good solid crisis is what the globe's population requires in order to really get its priorities right. After all, when it's all said and done, and we're wiping the atomic dust from our shelter-issue goggles, you can't eat money. Our bank statements may, at a pinch and a lot of balsamic vinegar, provide limited sustenance, but that's about it. The true value of things is only really determined when the collection of nervy knee-jerk reactions that control the amount of money we have to spend on living finally give up twitching for us.
The questions we can't really answer any more are: What's a loaf of bread worth? What am I worth? If you take away the money system, what do you really own?
It strikes me at this time in our society's history that we have finally and inexorably realised that you cannot get an infinite amount of something from a finite amount of nothing.
Something's gotta give, and if it produces a species that finally works out the true value of being able to survive, then I say bring it on...

A beginning. Ensure your mind is in the upright position.

And so I start typing. The world, bless it, continues to revolve in an unbelievable resolute fashion, and we all seem to keep on breathing.
Nuts.
I have, after a short inner turmoil concluded that the groundstate for mankind is abject insanity, and as such needs no help from me.
Nonetheless, here I am, adding a veneer of comment to a thick varnished table upon which sit the mundanities of this world. Oh horror. Oh Joy. That I have lived this long, etc etc
Cynicism? Oh, certainly. My brain, full of its well-earnt lessons, would never allow otherwise.
I guess it is the actions of breathing in and out that allow us the feeble excuse to believe we are eminently qualified to comment upon this world, this life and its beautiful complexities.
With such arrogance perched upon my sullied cranium, I set out to type what my fingers reliably inform me are my mind's thoughts, filtered as they are by two arms and all my experiences.
If that's not a journey's beginning, I don't know what is.