We squabble over notes in pockets and wallets. Mass produced pieces of paper, hardly much different than what I write these words upon. Only reason it means so much is because we repeat over and over that it does. The ghost, the phantom, of the dollar, still haunts this home called Earth. But we must seek to exorcise this nuisance, this demon. All things, as a result of this jealous god’s vicious influence, are reduced to matters of money. “Redistribute the flow of money so everyone is equal.” “Let the money decide what it wants.” “Only the most deserving shall receive the money.” Truth is, the only correct idea is to discard money altogether. While a certain philosopher came to this conclusion (one I despise), it is, indeed, true. We are Homo Sapiens, not Homo Economicus. To say that the musings of ideologues who draft up state-supported modes of vulgar production who care nothing for nothing else but what makes their precious, darling child breed and reproduce more of its wretched spawn (or more of its corrosive influence)…is a tragic error. The dollar is but a secular deity, another idol we worship. Its churches? Banks. And it is a pervasive, totalist god. It demands subservience. All discussions, in its eyes, must boil down to its existence, and how it can still be able to dominate.
Saw this old guy While waiting to take the train one morning, Hoping to kill some time And he started spewing some crazy shit, Got to wonder why, Talking about how certain people Are ruining his country, Can’t help but laugh a bit in silence, It’s all just so funny, Hearing ramblings so early already About who is and isn’t scummy, Like all the culture he enjoys so much Didn’t come from those his types sent running, Just want to throttle his ass so he’ll Quit worrying about who women are fucking Or having a heart attack every time he hears About some dudes who like sucking, See, I’m real simple, I’m not too bent On telling folks what they can and can’t do; on better shit I could waste my precious breath, Never really was, didn’t have that kind of personality, But everyone else did; felt like an abnormality, Wearing a hat that shows how many kids overseas His ass made suffer and bleed, Flag with ghostly bank notes on it So he can show us for some faceless goons he’d proudly be deceased, Oldhead incensed that we’re too blind to see That frail and empty logic…
I wonder how many others Are silently agreeing, Too bitch-made to question a culture Where their windpipes are closed to prevent any speaking, Life affirming? Life itself they’re all readily squeezing, Murdering from the sidelines, blood is always leaking, Forced to be numb to it all; the blood in my veins is freezing!
He gives a look and nod, Shaved head and steel-toes, I must be one of his own, Fellow fool, fellow fraud, But my eyes don’t return his affirmations, My face tells him I don’t approve of This place’s constant strangulations, See, I know I’ve got blood on my hands, I know that much, Kind of why I’m always looking down, All the crimson spilled by this species called “man”, Fuck, there’s so many; it’s a bunch With a scowl he steps off at the next stop, Grumbling as he walks away all pissed off, Next stop comes, I guess it’s my time to go, Where will I go today, I don’t even know, Just wandering aimlessly, Nothing but clusters Of blurry days to me, I wonder if I’m worthy of the gift of life Gaia herself gave to me…
We’ll pay our penance when Ol’ Mom is tired of us being a menace, Until that time comes, she’ll watch As upon her, murder will be what we’re dealing, Not a peacenik, I am; hippie shit I ain’t selling, Just baffles me how many people are hellbent on quelling, Eager to go looking for more victims to rat to the killers that they’ll be telling!
Dulling minds To the horrors outside, Keeping us locked in a cage, Quelling that well-justified rage, Going after those condemned to die Under the veil of a blackened sky, Acting like the law that you Claim to hate, Lynched bodies Of the disenfranchised Hang in your wake!
Another slew of kids Cross your path, More women coerced, Feeling your wrath, Pushing poison to the ones Who frolic with the same gender Under threat of a gun, Eager to see ‘em all get fucking done!
I’ve had enough of trying to Understand your side, Claiming to fight the system While aiding them In goddamn genocide!
So many are crushed under The weight of your boot, Painting yourself as a hero When really you’re a dictator That we need to fucking shoot!
Preying on your people, Viewing them as cattle to Rake in dough from while all Strung-out and feeble, Not allowed to condemn you While you rape and pillage Land and communities Just to turn it into another ruined village!
While the powers-that-be, Your co-conspirators, Can lie to my face About who and what it is you are, My eyes clearly see you’re a disgrace, And I think that your oppressive ways Have been allowed to go too fucking far!
I know you’d shoot me for this, Because my words are true, Even your clientele fucking hate you, Damn that makes you rabidly pissed!
Expel the profiteer who keeps you down, Bash the bloodsucker that wants you in the ground, Whether they be legitimatized or not, Don’t your lives be sold and bought!
By what decree? Who gave it to you, for you to cut up and vivisect and tear, and kill off folks who already lived there, then say they don’t deserve to be there, declaring them outsiders from their own homes? From what source, were you given a “divine right”, to purge the wildlife, flora and fauna alike, so that you may build your grotesque empire of life-denialism upon the bones and blood of those who you deemed to be inferior because you hate difference and loathe what doesn’t conform to the inanity of your false god?
By what logic, are you able to justify sectioning off the Mother, splitting her up like the atoms you split to one day vaporize cities? Because your skin color says it is your very duty? So as to reap the benefits of sheep who are easily swindled into playing your game for you? Or that they weren’t making use of it, but now you will (making use of it being code word for raping, pillaging, poisoning, murdering, exterminating, etc., etc.,)? To foster a shaky culture whose foundations are built on the ideals of hard labor, consuming and producing, mindless activity suited for drones and robots, not the living, breathing, and feeling? Protective of the “riches” hidden there, eager to start up another wrecking ball, another belching engine of disastrous intentions?
By what delusion do you think that all of this is yours, and yours alone? How did you come to the conclusion that it can all be doled in whichever way you please, to whoever you want? And if they don’t make that imaginary list, right, then clearly they don’t deserve to be there, correct? Push ‘em out, yes? Your fake little numbers weren’t branded onto them in this specific area from birth, so, I guess they can’t step foot here, huh? What, y’all don’t like it when cattle from different ranches interact? Silly me, how could I forget; you think them worse than the walking meat piles you sell into slavery, don’t you? Don’t you?
By what array of prophetic visions were you able to decide that them merely marching onto land that is far more precious than price tags, names, zoning regulations, imaginary lines ignored by the smarter non-human relatives we trample on so callously, blood that calls itself better than any other shade of red, entitles you to beating them down, locking then up, abusing them, hunting them for sport, and declaring them worthy of only constructing the Leviathan you masturbate to in your head of dull dreams and unimaginative aspirations? Especially since most of them were hear first…but you don’t want everyone else to know that, right? And if they did, well, those savages didn’t deserve it, did they?
By what grand mishap did you declare movement and connection to the ground ones walks upon itself, via the partitioning of an entire world, was a crime, that expression of freedom in its purest form?
I’m the one in your alleyways Hanging out by your garbage cans, Scavenging for what’s left as I Figure out how I’m going to Slip away once again so as Not to meet the gaze of prying eyes…
I’m the one rummaging through The dumpsters you don’t Watch, digging around while You sleep away the darkest Hours, hiding so many secrets Under a veil of dark…
I’m the one you glare at Whilst I walk alone on the streets At sundown, awkwardly fixated on Because I’m dressed for weather That’s as cold as I feel inside…
I’m the one who observes From under a bridge surrounded by trees, Listening to the hustle and bustle of your life, Remembering when you screamed at me today That I should strive for what you have…
I’m the one you want to catch and kill Once you saw me out of the corner of your eye, Getting away again with what you Believe I shouldn’t’ve, cursing Me as another scoundrel that Society forgot to grind into dust…
I’m the one who doesn’t play along When “more” comes into play, Demanding why I didn’t put in, Guilt tripping me as if my conscience would Care that I wasn’t giving away more than The absolute bare minimum…
I’m the one who hung out with the Freaks and misfits you didn’t Pay attention to as I spewed out Everything you fear within their Circles, cheering them on and Welcoming them, feeling more alive and Refreshed than I ever did when I was But one of the fortunate ones…
Curiously, there are those who seem to believe that the totalitarian doctrine of capitalism is even remotely compatible with the ways of anarchy and individualism. Who foolishly seem to think that capitalism is a path to freedom, rather than a grave hindrance, a monumental obstacle, a roadblock that stands in the way of liberation. Nothing, nothing at all, could be any further from the truth. Capitalism seeks to crush both the tenets of anarchy, and individualism. Whoever deems it to be a friend of either, is wrong, and idiotic. Allow me to explain.
You see, capitalism’s so-called “individualism” is decidedly non-existent. It’s actually quite collectivistic. For starters, the economic model of capitalism, being a many-tendriled menace, requires as many participants, actors, if you will, in its grandiose stage play, demanding that all be subsumed into its gullet as possible, so as to allow for maximum growth and efficiency. The more participants, the more opportunities to bolster, profit, produce, consume, etc. Its entire goal is to level flat everything, steamrolling it all until there is only robotic machines making and taking, and nothing else. No cultures, no art, no thought or belief, no fun, no joy, no love, no passion, no ways of life that are different from each other, no myths or tales or stories. Only the endless, computational repetition of number-crunching and calculation. This can clearly be seen by the fact that capitalism, throughout its existence, has been recklessly and miserably imperialistic, expansionistic, wanting to stamp its footprint into every location on Earth. Once it achieved this, it could lasso every throat into being dragged inches and inches closer to its blades, to chop their heads off. Like cattle being led into a slaughterhouse. You have no choice but to allow capitalism into your life, into your world, because if you don’t, then capitalism will kill everything you care about outright, rather than slowly, through the insidious façade of “enrichment” and “prosperity”. The mechanism cannot allow for you to be free of it, and it never will. Opt out? There is no opting out. You’re in it, and the only way out is a mass grave.
Not to mention, concepts central to capitalism, such as businesses, “private property”, etc., all require large, concentrated masses to uphold, either through swindling, intimidation, or indoctrination. To collectively believe in them, and hold them to be true, as well as support these mammoth constructs. And, because capitalism treats these geists as absolutely real and unquestionable, you are required, out of a sense of duty, to your boss and fellow man, to adhere to them, to capitalism’s “law and order”. Many libertarians claim to be against the scourge of democracy, but it seems to me, rather, that free marketeerism, with its reliance on collectives and collectivism, the submission of the individual to the wants and whims of the many-too-many (after all, the populace that comprises the free market shall decide everything, and you, the individual, get no sort of say in your fate), its spiritual egalitarianism (everyone is equally a producer/consumer, capable of working and buying, and the only difference is someone’s bank account balance), and its populist message, signify that it is, in fact, the perfection of democracy. Besides, no “free market” is ever really free…
To piggy back off of all this, capitalism favors regimentation, rigidity, uniformity, conformity, homogeneity. It is often said capitalism leads to variety and difference; nothing could be further from the truth. Capitalism’s much akin to a black hole. Everything gets sucked into it, mashed together until it’s a hodge-podge of grey, undifferentiated material to be used later, and then shat out as a line of identically made products ready to be thrown away by beings who could not possibly afford them or find much use in them (outside of coercion and conditioning).
Which brings me to a second point: capitalism discourages any sort of “independence”, any sort of “self-reliance”. You might think to yourself, “well, capitalism encourages all of this atomism and disintegration”, and yes, capitalism, because of its uncanny ability to stretch itself thinner and thinner until it eventually starts to fall apart and tear at the seams, going berserk as it desperately tries to recuperate, clinging to dear life, does indeed lead to disintegration and alienation. How could it not? Out of a desire for a war of all against all, it simply manufactures one. Out of a desire for might to be right, it makes it so. Out of a desire of contracts, it turns everything into a binding document, from your first breath, to your last, pained heave. However…because of it forcibly welding so many things together in order to sculpt its vision of a grand, economic, materialistic Leviathan, the supposed “self reliance” capitalism offers is quite nonexistent. Like previously mentioned, capitalism discourages the “dropping out” mentality, of simply saying “no thanks”. Why? Because it needs you. It needs your time, your body, your mind, your soul, your heart, it needs it all. Denying it this starves the beast, causing it to throw a tantrum, like a petulant infant. First it will tempt you with promises of luxury, power, and comfort, saying that, “oh, well, you must rely on this, and everything born from it, and everything bound to it”. Then it shall mock, ridicule, deride, denigrate. Finally, there shall be scorn, hate, violence, a war to be waged, and much tyrannizing practiced. Eating you alive in the process. All because it thirsts for profit, for green, for cash.
Consent, it should be clear, is no part of capitalism. Quite hilarious, since libertarianism (allegedly) places so much emphasis on consent, although when it comes down to it, libertarianism will throw consent out of the window for its own ridiculous ends. No, capitalism does not give a shit about consent. It doesn’t ask, and it damn sure doesn’t take no for an answer. Either it gets what it wants, or, if one denies it, then one’s throat is slit. Capitalism, at heart, is the ideology of rape. And even many libertarians eventually realize that capitalism requires force, that it requires a sort of…how shall we say…predatory, jackbooted implementation. From Hoppe’s desire to create a yellow and black, national socialist coalition, to Rothbard’s notorious love affair with cops and wanting to exterminate the homeless, we know where libertarianism truly leads. And it is not towards anarchy…
Now for the connections between capitalism, centralization, and statism. All of the aforementioned characteristics lead out should make one realize that capitalism doesn’t lead to decentralization, to smallness, but rather bigness, and a concentration in one particular area. It’s much akin to Perlman’s conception of the Leviathan that takes the form of an octopus. Many arms will have a stranglehold in many areas, but they all lead back to the same source, the same body, and feed the same mouth. Quite like how a railroad network extends in all directions, but they all congregate, eventually, into one spot. All roads, in capitalism, thanks to its need for accumulation, for hoarding, for an incessant hunger that manifests in a never-ending quest for acquisition, lead back to an ugly head, and a cold, coal-like heart, with a mouth that spews toxic waste all over the land, unleashing noxious breath that only serves to increase the growing number of dead left in its wake.
As you can see, this all leads to a state. To enforce capitalism’s rules and regulations (because it will foster many, even “anarchist” capitalists, these idiotic libertarians, have so many stipulations attached), police forces, laws, courts, judges and juries and executioners, prisons, will have to be constructed and mandated. And because of capitalism’s rapacious appetite, it will need to tax, to rob and commit theft from whoever’s caught between its teeth, stuck in the gaping maw, about to be forever swallowed into its gullet. Who shall do all of this? Rulers, of course. States. Monolithic entities that eventually become the sole carriers of the sword, the ones with the monopoly on violence, and says to all, “obey or die”. Like all states, it will grow to enormous proportions. Even libertarians will find themselves having to concede this point, assuming their logic is taken to the conclusion. You see it in David Friedman, Lew Rockwell, and perhaps even further than either combined, Insula Qui.
In conclusion, libertarianism, “anarchist capitalism”, is an oxymoron. A phantom, a fraud, a severe case of dupery and con artistry. Anarchy and capitalism, they cannot coexist. This has been proven time and time again, both by history, and the proponents of both (as well as by the jackasses who try to create a synthesis between the two).
What would they know about life? What would they know about living? Stuck within the confines of ivory towers they built for themselves, living exclusively within the lap of luxury, they know nothing of life, or living. Life is struggle, life is joy, life is passionate, life is full of fear, mystery, danger, wonder, and a sense of destiny. These characters, they sorely lack a desire for such things. They’ve become dulled, any drive pulverized and crushed. And for those born into this, they never will. Nor will their so-called “friends”, who are just as decadent as they are.
Cowardly materialism, the way of the Enlightenment, of the rationalist, has led us to this point. Where mercantilists are the ones with the final say. Who spread their tendrils everywhere, seeking to occupy every corner of the globe. Nothing has value beyond the monetary amount it can be acquired for or auctioned off for. Rope everyone and everything into their homogenized dystopia. Uniform, steamrolled, crushed under the weight of sacks of currency! Can it make me rich? Then I do not desire it! After all, as the liberal forefathers declared (and you know who they are), all can be reduced to economics, and these are the only things worth giving a rat’s ass about. Spirituality lies murdered in the gutter, and its corpse propped up in a carnival show, drawing curious faces for prices much higher than whatever pocket change they fish out for the exhibit.
Damn the higher causes! All that matters is the cries of the stomach! Oh humanity, do look upon what your desire for more reasons to your wallet has wrought! And look what your desires for bigger wallets to stuff your bigger paychecks in has given us! Your minds swim in the intestines.
Their minds have turned to soup, melted in their skulls, neurons having stopped firing long ago, the chemistry of their mind washed away and dulled. They can’t feel. They can’t think. They exist in a state of permanent autopilot. Green heroin is pumped throughout their veins, stuck in a state of pure euphoria and bliss that has turned whatever cognitive faculties they may’ve had to utter rot. Clouded eyes can only see the value of colored paper and minted coins, nothing else. Life is only useful in that provides more of the drug, more of the dopamine rush. Addicts on thrones, they are! And you are loathesome scum if you dare suggest you don’t want to be a part of the rat race, to be crushed under the iron heel of financiers, bankers, business people, and investors, let alone take actions against such types, or try to exit their clutches!
Their bodies are weak and soft. The mere thought of exercise, of putting the flesh and bone to good use, frightens them. Soft, scared of the world beyond their painted walls, plastered with art that they only value based on price, and not on quality. They are weak. Those who they deem to be “below” them, these false gods, they call botched. But it is they, who are botched! Miserly failures of existence. A waste of flesh and blood! Take away the gold and the diamonds, the palaces and fancy automobiles, immerse them in the state of nature, in the natural order, and see how they fare. We shall see who is weak, then…
Their very existence cheapens reality itself. All they can care for is whatever costs the most. Plutocrats, these meatbags. The rule of money, the reduction of all things to products for consumption, the decimation of culture, of any high and mighty ideal, the evisceration of Nature, the trampling of diversity, real diversity, and not mere brands to choose from, the utilitarian, use-driven philosophy that accompanies their way of life, and their urge towards baseness, towards the lowest common denominator. It is all they know! All they will ever know! What they relish in can only present this fetid, detrimental reality. The nightmare we are currently entrapped in. Human wouldn’t be a fitting term for them, I think. They think with their purse. The dollar does the speaking for them. Not that them using their mouths would be any better! They spew the verbal equivalent of sewage waste.
Our society declares them to be gods. To society, I laugh mockingly at their declarations. These mere impersonators of men and women, for to call them the real thing would be an insult to the actual species, are far from worthy to stand next to the likes of Wotan, Krishna, Mictlantecuhtli, Hekate, or Pan! They aren’t even mortal heroes.
They speak of us as weaklings? Very well. Let them revel in their stupidities. It matters not to me, or anyone else with a healthy outlook, what they happen to think. Nor do I particularly feel bad for the fools who lick their boots. This is what they wanted. What they begged for, pleaded for. What they continue to support. What their “champions” uphold with great pride, even the ones who claim otherwise. And if it’s what they want, then they deserve to get it good and hard. They made this bed, and now they must lie in it.
Forget the mass of humanity. Forget the concerns for mankind. Forget the pleas and cries of the international and national…thing…that is called “the people” (I reject the notions that it is alive, as some may say, certain deluded individuals), that everyone everywhere claims to speak on behalf of, for no one gets anywhere without their consent (although the consent is usually superficial; the mutuality is a farce, as you might ascertain from opening a history book, for make no mistake, nothing, and I do mean nothing, is done on behalf of “the people”). Forget the appeals to my biological kinship with my fellow persons. Forget the emotional appeals, for I have no particular goodwill towards the lot of man. There’s nothing for me there, and I doubt there ever will be. There are exceptions, and those who are, I cherish you deeply, and greatly. Let it be known that, by me, you are loved. As for the rest? I can’t say I am compelled to sympathize or want the affections of the majority. For I do not identify with them, and I do not ally myself with their causes, their wants, their needs, their desires, their fears, their worries, and their likes and dislikes. Why should I count myself among willing slaves, who so gladly serve selfish masters? Seems like a terrible idea to me.
This is what I want.
I want unbridled, unrestricted freedom. And I shall decide what that means, for me. Where those limits lie, if I acknowledge any. What I fight for, and what I fight against. I only stop where I may decide to stop, and I shall go only where I wish to. I will use whatever spirits, geists, that I find pleasing to me, if I shall utilize any at my disposal. And I shall determine, for myself, what form it takes (and the material means used to establish it), what it happens to manifest as, for the world is a canvas, the pages for a novel, and my life shall be poetry, it shall be art. The pools of inspiration it draws from. The various sources of inspiration I look to, as I realize my will, in its fullest potential, for that is all any of us can do, and that is all we may be said to have the “right” to do. If it is not the same tomorrow, as it is today, or yesterday, then be not surprised, for stagnancy and consistency are old and for old men, while youth and renewal and contradiction, that is the way of things, the true way of things. With whoever I want, those fellow vagabonds, if I can somehow manage to seek them out, if their vision, whilst not the same physically, is similar in spirit, and I repeat, with whoever I want, I shall associate with. If anyone shall decide to join me, so be it. If they refuse to, or even oppose, then I cannot blame or stop them, though I shall try to make it happen nonetheless. They can come and go as they please. Do as thou wilt, my friends. Do as thou wilt.
It shall be in a most beautiful, natural setting. Overgrown grass and healthy flowers instead of filthy sidewalks and streets. Tall, muscular, vibrant, imposing trees in place of concrete squares and drab, wooden structures. Soil for my bed. Lakes and ponds as my bathtubs. The breeze as my air conditioning. Wild fauna living their lives to the fullest, rather than drab, human clones, pompously strutting about. The sun and the moon taking the place of putrid streetlamps and streetlights. Money and moneyed interests will be gone, evaporated like mildew in the morning sun. No more will the economy be a deciding factor in anything. It’ll be back-to-the-land. However, the land, and its inhabitants, shall not be dominated. Harmony shall be achieved, where everything has its place. Nature is not our bitch. We are Nature’s bitch. We’d do well to remember that eternal fact.
This is not for anyone’s sake, outside of those whom I am emotionally attached to, and appreciative of, and love dearly. That is the answer to those critics who may be suggesting I am trying to be some sort of savior, some sort of messiah, striving for a kind of “greater good”, where all is restricted out of necessity. This should shut the conservative cowards and idiotic reactionaries up. Might I suggest you go back to the office and the church, and keep your noses out of what you couldn’t possibly understand. And if they cry the leftist-sounding cries of “egoism” and “selfishness”, then I shall throw their hypocrisy back in their faces, eviscerating their weak, pitiful arguments. I am what they practice, without all of the empty justifications they use to synthesize their contradictions, rendering them schizo . Nor shall I deny that I balk at tradition, for their “traditions” are false, and not perennial in the slightest, not worthy of the allegedly “primordial” importance they give to them. To put tradition, real tradition, and the ways of the Cross, Crescent Moon, or Star of David in the same sentence…would be the most absurd of errors. They are flimsy, just like their followers. Born of an age and period most foul, most absurd, and most deadly. And if economic concerns are raised towards me even once, I shall burn the nearest bank to the ground. Fuck your dismal science. I wipe my ass with your dollar bills. I might set your house on fire next.
Speaking of the left, they will no doubt decry me as some kind of decrepit miscreant. Unconcerned with the working class (I do not deny this, for to have something in common with someone based on our similar wages, is as hollow as having something in common with someone based on race, or gender, or geographical location), who are stuck in a slumber, lulled to sleep day in and day out, no sign of awakening in them to be found, and who reject whatever does not fit their mold, for they are ignorant and just as bourgeois as the bourgeois themselves, having adopted their standards. Yes, the rampant oppression and enslavement is disconcerting and hard to watch, but when they let it happen to them, and make no attempt, none at all, to alleviate themselves of it, can you really feel so sorry for them? They’d rather wallow in their sorry state, in their victim status, than assert their will, take that power, and light everything on fire, like they should. To answer the inevitable question, no, I shall not sit around idly, waiting for a revolt to magically happen, and then strive for my liberation then. It’ll never come, and if it does, as history has shown, it will not come via your side. They wouldn’t risk being ostracized and becoming an outcast for the mere sake of principles, in the meantime. Their liberty, whenever that comes, is not my liberty. As I’m sure they’ll also find out, I do not wish to make work more enjoyable or bearable, either. Those are two concepts that cannot be reconciled. I do not want to have a stake in the factory I work in. I want the factory razed to the ground. Forget about equality, too, while you’re at it, dear reds. I will gladly resist any attempts to level, to make me one with the herd. It won’t happen. I’d sooner fight you the way commie scum are supposed to be fought (I’d gladly make Joseph McCarthy look like a goddamn socialist, if need be), than let you pull a fast one on me.
Some may deem me a madman. But this is a mad world we live in. Everything is topsy-turvy. A crooked, messy hodgepodge we live in. All that we want to save or resurrect is dead and gone. We’re living in the shadow of a dead god, and the new ones give us nothing at all but misery and strife. Therefore, why not embrace the chaos and madness? After all, chaos is the natural state of life. Life is not orderly and pretty. If it is, it is not in any way the human mind would be able to grasp it. It is gruesome, violent, and uncertain, yet this is also what makes it beautiful, joyous, and exciting.
I want that thrill to come back, while the powers that be want to choke the life out of life itself, until everything is as drab and dull as everything else.
I’d go as far as to say that I, and others like myself, are the only “sane” ones left (forget sanity, however, for it was invented to keep the nonconformist from being a threat to the easily frightened mob, by quietly tucking them away in a dark corner), and everyone else is crazy.
Oh, how I envy you, bourgeois man. Mass-man. Mr. Satisfied.
Yes, it is true. I feel a pang of jealousy when I see you. I’m sure such a remark would just send that infinite self-assuredness soaring into great depths, wouldn’t it? Fill your wretched face with the most smug of grins, wouldn’t it?
But it is all for the reasons you would not consider.
You are not troubled by…anything. Because you do not think. A philistine, you are. I would contend you are incapable. And because of this, you are not disturbed by anything. You live in an idyllic bubble, pretending as if the world starts and ends with your little, perfectly manicured front lawn, surrounded by a white picket fence. As a result, you go about your day merrily, thoroughly unaware of the horror lurking beyond your gated communities.
Of course, whenever something shatters that stifling dogma of yours, breaches the containment of your perfect world, with its perfect system of bile-producing nausea, sends it crashing into oblivion, then the madness sets in. And you retreat even harder back into that shell, don’t you? Otherwise, the psychosis would set in. You would go mad from the revelation.
And since you do not think, you therefore, do not feel. You may play at emotion, yes. Imitate it, wear some sort of mask that resembles the words we’ve prescribed to various feelings. But I don’t think you really…experience true joy, or sadness, or fear, or love. It may either be beyond your capabilities, or it is something you won’t allow for yourself. Either way, you don’t really feel.
Since you are not prone to either thinking or feeling, you are able to blend in. Be perceived as what the mobocracy calls…normal. Perfectly indistinguishable from the assembly line of persons that the death machine that is our current mode of existence manufactures day in and day out. The matrix is something you’re perfectly content to live within. You never unplugged from it, so you never know the utter wrongness of it. Nay, you don’t even come close to the edges of it, you vulgar beast.
Everything which you champion is a thorough rejection of the real.
Due to your love of mobocracy, your propagation of it, you have a want, nay, a need, to strangle the life of a heretic, an individual, a blasphemer. You, you assailing robots, reprogrammable and able to be switched out, one for the other, want to reduce everything to your level. Drag everything down into that swirling vortex where all light goes dark, and all becomes one with the crushing weight of a thousand suns, burning out whatever life came into contact with your world.
Therefore, the individual is rendered null and void. A stifling conformity is put in place, where anything different, anything that doesn’t fit into the narrow doctrine, is destroyed, snuffed out. Heretical, it is deemed, and heresy, it is treated as. Blasphemy of the highest, most absolute variety. Either extinguish your Self totally and definitively, or simply…face death.
Of course, since there are no individuals, all are one. Not composed of the same essence, flowing from the same wellspring. No, no, that is not what you mean. You mean, in the most literal sense, a degrading sort of sameness. Exactly alike, in all respects. Maybe, perhaps, superficially different. But, at the core, carbon copies of each other. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so sickened, so thoroughly, by variety. It wouldn’t cause bile to rise in your throat.
Epitomize modernity, you do. With its wretched equality, its boorish plutocracy, its meandering dullness, its absolute negativity and contempt, unable to put forth positive values, only blindly negate, saying no to any and all things. You claim to loathe postmodernism, but you embody it to a frightening degree. Naturally, since creations always rebel against their creators. It is only the way of things.
Individuality, because it was negated, mysticism, spirituality, that most individual of things, is burned away, consumed in flames, and therefore, despite your pompous posturing about your nauseous traditions, you are soulless heathens, atheists of a fervent variety.
Because you do not think, or feel…you are not.
Protest it all you may like, you are not real. You are…a fake.
As a result, I envy you. To a staggering degree. A part of me wishes I could be a bourgeois beast like you. Another face in the crowd, who engages in the same mundane thoughts, actions, feelings, worries, likes and dislikes, as you. Sadly, I cannot. I simply cannot. I can’t compel myself to become one with your life, your weltanschauung. And thus, a certain poisonous jealousy sometimes arises within my heart, possessed by a silly want to be like you.
It would surely be very convenient, wouldn’t it? To float through life, as a mass-man. Never rise above the multitude. How easy and carefree it would all be.
Then again…who says I want an easy life? Who says I want a carefree one?
Once more, I am reminded of why I make no effort to join your ranks. I exist among you, but I do not mingle, unless it be necessary for me to do so. I try not to let your vicious taint ruin my soul. I cannot afford to be consumed and eaten away at by your hateful corruption.
I observe, and I interact, but I do not feel for you, or your world. Not genuinely. I wear a mask. Put on a coat and a hat to endure the bitter coldness that surrounds me when I step foot into your domain. Like a chameleon, I blend in when I must. But it is not infinite. I cannot do it indefinitely. After all, I need to breathe. You, who were born without lungs, wouldn’t know of that, would you?
While I may envy you, I also loathe you, and my loathing tempers my envy. Sure, I wish I could simply sink into your venomous waters, swept away by the currents and bashed against the rocks and riverbed, so that I may finally become normal and “sane”. But I am constantly shown the horrific banality and dreadfulness of that existence. How it would be the equivalent of descending into the dark, damp doldrums, and that, while I may have thrived in it, had I remained plugged in, so to speak, once unplugged, to go back in would be the equivalent of murderous torture. I’d be screaming in agony, desperately craving release from the nightmare. My soul would maim itself, and everything else, to crawl out of the malevolent prison it would find itself in.
Do not mistake my envy for a form of respect or admiration. I thoroughly hate you. Despise you. Never, ever, shall I bow to your altar. The lowest form of life is to be found in you, if you could even call yourself…life, at all.
Thanks to my hate, neither of us shall have to endure each other’s company.
On the map, it says it’s home. By all accounts, the unease stirring in his gullet shouldn’t make sense. Signs point in various direction, all saying they lead here. A most sacred patch, near and dear to his heart. This is where he belongs, his sanctuary. This is his, wholly his. Isn’t it?
But…it’s changed. A lot. Too much. Much too much. Not by its own volition, in the ways it is prone to; through artificial means. The kind that “doomsayers”, as the ignorant deem them, liked to warn about. Vicious, cruel, savage things he’d been cautioned to keep at bay, even dismantle, in various enlightening texts he’s absorbed.
Eyes peeled wide open, face steeped deep in concentration, searching, gazing, for something, arms folded, he peers, straining himself to find…something.
What was he looking for?
Something…recognizable.
That’s it.
Recognizable.
But, hmm, where was it?
He…he could’ve sworn it had been right here.
No, instead, it was a truly grotesque sight. A small plaza, fitted with everything a modern man and woman needs. Shops decked with neon lights, conjoined together like Siamese twins, until all of them merged into one giant monument of concrete, windows plastered with papers advertising this or that, saying the food was fresh (liars), or that you couldn’t get this cheaper than anywhere else (everyone says that), maybe a for-hire sign (debase myself? Ha, you were wrong). Mounted atop a huge asphalt slab, packed with motor vehicles, faceless and soulless decadents clamoring out of them. Why? Who knows. Who cares. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing worth noting. Hardly anything anyone ever does is so. Billboards erected, like giant, permanently erect phalluses, the eternal hard-on that draws in the lustful stragglers, always eager and needy for…something. What are they searching for? It’s unknown, both by them, and those who are not them. The top, the head, ever climaxing, so bright in comparison to the dullness of the shaft. Always trying to assuage each other. Unfortunately, both pits are so deep, so bottomless. How long have they been there, those pits? Ever since the lurking biped started roaming the landscape.
Surely, he must look so odd.
Given the stares and gazes of uncertainty, perhaps even scorn, his suspicions are concerned.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a strong urge to decimate them wells up within his gullet. A bestial, animalistic need to rend them apart. Tear them to pieces. Tear “their property” to pieces. Come to think of it, they’d probably be worried more about the latter, than the former. And this is the free world. So free, it can’t even picture the ball-and-chain attached to its neck. Clench and unclench, clench and unclench. Hands balling into tight fists, then unfurling again like frightened armadillos. Or geysers struck with pitch black gold. The only outward expression of that rage. Otherwise, his fury was tranquil. Well-hidden. Stuffed deep down inside. We are civilized, better than that dingy, mangy world. Don’t give in to the impulses, nay, for then you shall rediscover yourself. What you are. And what you are, we cannot leash. Or cloak.
Oh, the stench. The stench. It was awful. Reeked of foul waste and industrial dross. Discarded material from choking, dark, unholy mills. Dens of depravity spewing forth garbage.
Ugly, too. Absolutely offensive to his sight. Corrupt beyond repair. They twisted and mangled perfectly fine land for this? For this? This…this is their monument of greatness? Aye, it is true. So accomplished, they think themselves to be. Why? Because of this. This…thing.
Would such an outburst change much? Hell no.
Yet, would it bring him much satisfaction? Absolutely.
Perhaps a lifetime’s worth. So, so invigorating.
The man had to wonder, did that old hero that stayed out in Montana…did he feel the same fire, the same embers licking at his soul, sparking a rush of primal excitement to course through his veins, as he made his stand?
A sane Satan against a gibbering Jehova.
Rejoicing in turning these churches into heaping husks.
That poor old German fellow. Yahweh, Christ, was sadly not dead.
Some kind of diabolical shapeshifting had occurred, that’s all.
God’s a sorry excuse for a deity if He lets this slide. Then again, this is God. Transferred into them, via the wretched Luther (thank you, o wise German spirits). The talking, breathing, blood-and-bone machines, that, from what he hears, is God. And, also, though not as explicitly proclaimed, the…eyesores, as he designates these constructions that hefty, cigar-chomping, genetic failures call upon drunken philistines to manifest, via a green hypnotism…these are also known to be God. Even if it is not outright said…
Fools, all of them. In all of their stupidity, what would they know of God? In all of their idolatry, all of their massacring of God itself (herself, actually), quite literally…raping her (proudly, angrily, arrogantly, they got off on it, lived for it, in the most literal manner)…how could they know?
Aha, see, there it was. Yes, they knew not God, but their concocted demiurge. Foul, fiendish creature that is known as Marduk.
He knew God intimately.
God was encountered whenever he laid in the grass, gazed at the stars, leaned against an old, sturdy tree, saw a coyote chasing a rabbit, a duck raising its young, witnessing the sprouting of roses, getting lost in the clear waters of a pristine lake, as well as the fish swimming around in it, basking in the flow of the sun, and feeling and tasting the pitter-patter of rain drops upon his skin. He knew God to be beautiful, sublime, a grand artist with a taste for beauty, creator of a colorful, vibrant, lush world, filled with wondrous beings, and places where these beings dwelled.
God…God didn’t have a hand in this drab, dull, nightmarish, conformist shit heap. She couldn’t have. Nay, this was not her handiwork. Square monoliths, with rotting interiors, a sterilized, soulless den, that nevertheless, was always dirty. You walk in, and feel the need to shower once you’ve gotten out.
It’d be perfectly fair, he thought.
Desecration for desecration.
Ruin their god. Ruin the god that they have been told they are.
Blood for blood, Ruth for Ruth, Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.
Sighing, he realized he’d been here for too long. Made himself more of a stranger than he’d already felt. Stepping forth, across the street, past the plaza, resisting the urge to look at the other human beings, ducking and lowering his eyes or head whenever an individual’s field of vision fixated on him. Barely anything came out of his mouth. If a greeting came his way, he merely nodded, gave an awkward smile, and kept on his way. Plodding along the highway. One foot after the other, making continuous contact with the concrete.
Voices speak of things he couldn’t even care to remember. He wished, oh he wished, to grasp their throats. Shut them up. T’was hardly worthy of recollection. Half-baked humorous remarks told amidst testosterone-riddled youths. Mates trying to woo one another. Conversations on devices, a beggar or two lingering, hoping for reprieve, brats annoying their tired mothers, and tired mothers annoying insolent, petulant brats. Silly, inane arguments. Some of them spoke fondly, in relation to the words of the…preachers, who gladly enslaved themselves and brought to life this new god. Others prattled on about their lives. The chit-chat blurred together into one singular story. Indistinguishable. Lost in a sea of perfect sameness. Who were they? He didn’t know. And neither did they, for that matter. Eyes vacant, devoid of emotion. Breathe, talk, walk, yes, they did all that…well enough. Yet, did they truly live? Were they even capable?
Of course, the peace wouldn’t come, even if their windpipes were shut. Oh no.
Because there was another menace, hurtling right past him, multiples every second. Practically blinding his eyes as the sun began to set (what little he could see of it, anyway; blot out the sun, why don’t ya!). Did the roads ever rest? Did the pavement ever sleep? It certainly should. For his sake, not for the pavement’s. Fuck the pavement.
Hurtling towards death, he liked to think of this travel. Humanity loved death, craved it. Mankind wanted to die. Wanted to kill itself. Come on; what was all this for, if not to satisfy that suicidal drive? In a literal sense, they were hurtling towards death, yes. Or, at least, the risk of it. On the other hand, there was a subtler meaning to such a statement. Faster and faster, towards their own demise, at the hands of progress, of wanting, no, needing…to go forward, always. Ceaselessly. Endlessly.
Well, if they wanted bloodshed and carnage, bloodshed and carnage they could have. Pleading, begging, crying, for their blood to be spilled, flowing out of their veins, onto the ground. Someday, their wishes would be granted. Thy death they demanded? Thy death they’d receive, in full. No questions asked. Might take some time, but soon, the end, their dream, their ideal, on a silver platter, fresh and steaming hot, would it be served.
Besides, they hated the Mother? Good, the mother hated them back. Soon, they’d know it. Maybe not now (although a sizeable chunk are starting to suspect this may be the case; and the children, the brave outlaws that are still authentically connected to her, and wish to be, revolt, as best as they can, every day), but in the near future, it’d be burned into their skulls. Stamped with the label: “HATED”. Rejected, because they chose to reject first. Abandoned, because they chose to abandon first. Sever the connection, and you shall no longer be a child of the Mother. You decided you didn’t want her. It should be unsurprising she no longer wants you.
Treading along the way, his eyes would focus on a corpse. Animal, not human. Humans are worth more, he’s always been told. Yeah? Worth more than what? The creatures they senselessly murder, so they can get to their jobs they hate, or their homes they spend more time out of, than inside? Feed their ever-growing numbers, and ever-growing bodies? Rape the Mother, God, more and more? Tie her up? Drill her real good, over and over? Be blind to Truth, intoxicated instead by lies? Kill each other, for reasons so baffling, he wanted to laugh in their faces? Prostrate at the alter of an Israeli communist agitator, who, if he were around today, should deserve to be strapped to the hood of a truck, and paraded around like a war trophy, whilst lashed endlessly? Did that prove their worth? What were they worth more than? Shit, they weren’t the bullets spent every day in their never ending quest to kill themselves.
A sigh left his throat, though it wasn’t heard. Stopping for a moment, tilting his head as his eyes fixated on it. Splayed out, tongue lolling out, eyes bulging, limbs flung in every which way, maggots digging around in what was no doubt a fresh body.
Sweet thing, you didn’t deserve this. You deserved better.
Time to get a move on. Don’t mourn the dead, or you’ll be deemed crazy. Sent to an asylum, locked away, shocked, beaten, poked, prodded, mentally rearranged to their liking.
He wasn’t crazy. All of them were. Not him. He was sane. A sane Satan.
Fuck. It was hard to think. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t. Needed to hear his own thoughts. Too many distractions. All this noise. Noise, noise, noise. That’s all there was. Just noise. Goddamnit, he’d need some sort of Zen-like concentration to tune out, to turn it into blank, white static. Or someplace like home. That reminded him of home.
Hmm…
Oh…
There it was.
Familiar territory.
Snarling, growling, like some kind enraged beast, he ran deep into a large patch of woods. A dense, thick forest on the side of the highway.
Tears blinded his vision, but not tears of pain. Jagged edges and thorns and other such things tore at him, made his skin bleed. Lesser folks would’ve been annoyed, angered. Him? Never. He took this as a welcoming back. Yes, he cried tears of joy. He was home. Hurrah, hurrah. He was home, free at last.
Collapsing to the ground in a heap, having founded a large, open patch, breathing and shaking from all of the adrenaline, a smile finally began to creep onto his face.
A World In Flames 