I sold off my farm and used the proceeds to purchase an artificial biosphere with the neighbours. They said that this would be more productive. Not wanting to be left out of the collective, I changed my entire life.
I found out that I was the only farmer in this biosphere. There are goat herders, carpenters, and even the odd money-changer. I never realised this, but my neighbours don't eat much of the rice which I produce. In fact, I wasn't included in their master plan at first, but they thought it wise to have a farmer on board to do the tilling. Keep the soil fertile and all.
I'm starting to miss the field I owned. I look out of the transparent shell of the biosphere and I see it in the distance. It's no longer as lush and green – no one works it anymore. I miss the scent of rain, the feel of it pattering on my back. I had a deep connection with the product of my labour. It was a birthing process, a stark contrast to the vending-machine delivery of the push-button process.
I don't know if I can leave the biosphere. I don't know if I'd be letting my neighbours down, or whether I had the guts to work the land from scratch again. There's some joy and comfort to be had in the biosphere, but I long so much for the trickle of sweat down my brow.
I miss knowing the feel of a job well done.