Living Without Your "Sorry"

-or- You could only bring yourself to love money; my love was poor and couldn't buy the dirt to bury you.

Comprehension of the watchworks behind the capital-circuit only explains the non-livability of life under these terms. We can participate only in willful ignorance. We consume on an ever-increasing schedule, that is the only permitted manner of existance. That first symptom of knowledge and "survival sickness" is severe depression; a consistant and enveloping disillusionment with what was once perceived as the magic of the world.
Dogs must find a place to shit, but finches don't share that concern. Hebbel, in a surprising entry in his diary, asks what takes away "life’s magic in later years.’ It is because in all the brightly-coloured contorted marionettes, we see the revolving cylinder that sets them in motion, and because for this very reason the captivating variety of life is reduced to wooden monotony. A child seeing the tightrope-walkers singing, the pipers playing, the girls fetching water, the coachmen driving, thinks all this is happening for the joy of doing so; he can’t imagine that these people also have to eat and drink, go to bed and get up again We, however, know what is at stake." Namely, earning a living, which commandeers all those activities as mere means towards an end not of our own. It reduces these daily actions to interchangeable, abstract labour-time incriments, the benefits from which are only ever fractionally our own. MinimaMoralia
An appearance of enjoyment is the primary, and to no small extent necessary, attribute required for all of our successful social exchanges and yet that very illusion is empty, fabricated. This deceit of joy is how we convince others (and to extent ourselves) that we experience life fully; that we have transcended the role of mere subsistance-existing machines.

This saccharin happiness is the only acceptable emotion with a positive social cache as it is proof that we are doing this whole "life" thing correctly.