How is it?, or questions to a man who probably doesn't exist (poem)

How is it to feel at home in the world?
How is it to never dream of a better one
and accept a map without Utopia on it?
How is it to never feel constrained by
the role assigned to you at birth?
How is it to prefer concrete to trees?
How is it to believe what the newspapers say
and not having an allergic reaction to the TV drug?
How is it to read only the books
the publishers say you should read?
How is it to believe that the bombs and
drones are magically guided to
only kill and maim the guilty?
(trust me, I'm merely envious)
How it is to believe in our
great leaders?
How is it to believe that money and power always goes
to those that deserve it?
How is it to not feel engaged
in a constant struggle for survival?
How is it to never know
how it is?