As the saying goes, the only thing in life that is inevitable is death. Oh, and taxes. Many of the metaphors, clumsy or not, see death as being some kind of a debt or a final payment, so there’s that link up with taxes, too: you’re born into this world owing a death, they say. Life is a finite resource and here the comparison of a thread being spun by the fates or a glittering candle-lit room, as in Godfather Death, seem particularly apt; this is how you end up thinking of how to spin it out a little longer, perhaps, or make do with the time you’ve got.
Taxes are unpleasant but necessary, I suppose; if you receive government services (and we all do) then the money for that doesn’t magically appear from thin air, does it? At the same time you think it’s yours, you earned it, and like a little red hen, you should keep it, there’s also the thought you haven’t considered: how was this made possible? Did you get to work or transport your goods on public roads? Assumed the police would keep you safe from harm? How about ensuring clean water was available, or that sewers would work, that you could use the Internet or the lights would come on when you flipped the switch? What you do is enabled by what the government does; if they’re pretty transparent about it, that means they’re doing it well.
We continue on repeat through the weekdays; I have quite a few hours of sleep to catch up with in the near term and the hours I spend aren’t always fruitful. A few long days and I’m done, done with being able to function at work or done with being productive. We have, inevitably taxed our time while trying to earmark it for our own possibly selfish purposes.