My Vision Board Said 'Wellness Guru.' The Five-Year Plan Said 'Potassium Extraction Specialist.'
A dispatch from Comrade Zara Moonwhisper, formerly of @ZenWithZara (127k followers), currently of Shaft Seven, Solikamsk Processing Collective No. 4, Western Urals.
I want to start by saying that I still believe in the revolution. I want to put that out there. I am writing this by candlelight — not for aesthetic reasons this time, but because the generator only runs for four hours a day and the foreman, Comrade Breznikov, has made it abundantly clear that electricity is for "productive members of the collective," which apparently does not include journaling.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to the beginning, when everything was beautiful and made of reclaimed wood.
The Manifesting Era (Pre-Dialectical Materialism)
For three glorious years, I was Zara Moonwhisper — Holistic Healing Facilitator, Breathwork Architect, and founder of the Conscious Collective Wellness Pod, a subscription service offering guided meditations, chakra-balancing Zoom sessions, and a monthly box of ethically sourced crystals that I personally charged under the full moon (or, during winter, under a SAD lamp, which I argued produced comparable spiritual frequencies).
I was also, and I cannot stress this enough, extremely online about communism.
My feed was a gorgeous mosaic: a rose-gold amethyst cluster beside a quote from Lenin, a photo of my adaptogen latte next to a thread explaining why landlords were parasites, a reel of my morning sound bath intercut with infographics about seizing the means of production. I had a whole series called "Comrade & Calm" that paired breathwork exercises with passages from The Communist Manifesto. It got picked up by three different leftist newsletters. I was thriving.
Photo: The Communist Manifesto, via product.hstatic.net
When the revolution finally came — and I will not bore you with the political mechanics, partly because I never fully understood them and partly because Comrade Breznikov confiscated my phone — I was ready. I had my tote bag. I had my politics. I had a color-coded vision board featuring the words "COMMUNITY," "HEALING," and "ABUNDANCE" in a font called Brushstroke Utopia.
I was not, as it turned out, ready.
Stage One: Confusion (The Form-Filling Stage)
The Central Planning Committee's regional office was nothing like I'd imagined. I had pictured something warm. Exposed brick, perhaps. A mural. Instead it was a folding table staffed by a man named Gregor who appeared to subsist entirely on cigarettes and institutional disappointment.
I submitted my skills assessment with genuine excitement. I listed: guided meditation facilitation, crystal reiki, somatic trauma release, kombucha fermentation, content creation, brand storytelling, and "holding space."
Gregor read the form. He read it again. He turned it over, as if the useful information might be on the back.
"What," he said, with the measured patience of a man who had seen many vision boards, "is holding space?"
I explained. At length. I mentioned nervous system regulation. I mentioned the vagus nerve. I drew a small diagram of the chakra system to illustrate my point.
Gregor stamped my form. The stamp said REASSIGNED.
Stage Two: Bargaining (The 'But Surely' Stage)
Surely, I argued, the new society would need wellness infrastructure. Mental health was a public health issue. I had read that. I had posted about it extensively. The revolution would be nothing without robust emotional support systems for the working class.
Gregor agreed, in principle, that mental health was important. He then explained that the current Five-Year Plan prioritized potassium chloride extraction, winter wheat, and not dying, roughly in that order. He slid a train ticket across the table.
Destination: Solikamsk.
I asked if there was a waitlist for the Collective Mindfulness Coordinator position.
There was not a waitlist. There was not a position. There had never been a position. The words "Collective Mindfulness Coordinator" had, in fact, caused Gregor to briefly close his eyes in the manner of a man praying for strength.
Stage Three: Grief (The Crying on a Train Through the Urals Stage)
This stage lasted approximately forty-eight hours and covered considerable geographical distance. I had packed three types of magnesium supplement, a rose quartz the size of a fist, and absolutely no thermal underlayers, because my vision board had not included a climate forecast for the Western Urals in February.
I attempted a gratitude practice. I found seven things to be grateful for. By Perm, I was down to four. By Solikamsk, I had gratitude for exactly one thing, which was that the train had stopped moving.
Stage Four: Acceptance (Shaft Seven)
Comrade Breznikov is not a cruel man. He is simply a man who has extracted potassium from the earth for thirty-one years and has developed, during that time, a finely calibrated allergy to nonsense.
On my first day, I asked whether the collective had considered incorporating mindful movement breaks into the shift structure. He handed me a pickaxe.
On my second day, I asked whether there was a suggestion box for wellness initiatives. He pointed at the shaft.
By the third day, I had developed what I can only describe as a powerful new relationship with physical reality. The crystals, it turns out, do not appreciably assist with the manual extraction of mineral salts. My brand storytelling skills have found no meaningful application underground. The somatic trauma I am now processing is, in a technical sense, very literal.
I have, however, become excellent at one thing: knowing exactly when the 6 a.m. shift ends. That's a kind of mindfulness, I think. Comrade Breznikov almost smiled when I said that. Or he had dust in his eye. It's difficult to tell.
Stage Five: A Note to My Former Followers
If you are reading this — and statistically, given current infrastructure, you are not — I want you to know that I support the revolution. I do. Landlords were bad. Probably still are.
But if you are currently posting content about dismantling capitalism from a device that costs more than a month of agricultural wages, I would gently invite you to ask yourself one question: What is on the back of your skills assessment form?
Because Gregor will look. Gregor always looks.
The potassium doesn't extract itself.
Zara Moonwhisper's Conscious Collective Wellness Pod subscription service has been suspended pending review by the Committee on Bourgeois Productivity Theater. Her crystals have been redistributed to the people, which in practice means Gregor's desk.
— Filed by Earl 'Red' Hutchins, Actual Life Under Communism. "We report the revolution so you can learn from it. Preferably before the train departs."