Hovering in the minds of those who toil, tend the gears and muster a convincing smile is the pulsating notion of passionate upset. Of everything failing, of everything coming to a halt, of going home early, possibly to be out of work completely. Teeming just below the facade of civility is the solitary rationale behind setting fires and drawing blades. That flickering, hateful urge for change amidst crushing monotony, amidst horrendous norms will become the lifeblood of persistence against stupefying odds.
Poetic anticipation for the dawn has failed us. We ourselves must become the daybreak. We ourselves must find the strength to raise up our own stars, to act in the light of our revolutionary unique for self-glory, for self-illumination, for the sweet tinge of having delivered a heartfelt blow to everything before and since.
What stands now, what has stood for millenia, can only ferment deeper into a more nauseating brine for all of us to wake up each day and inhale. The empires play their same old games with new toys. The sweat on their brow comes only from the stress of maintaining excuses for war and slavery.
If you do nothing, or do more of the same, nothing new will sprout to nourish you.
We learned this quickly when first envisioning life without parents, and later without masters. We are the children who sifted through tatters of forgotten, forbidden thought and came to assemble our own minds. We are the bitter students who found brilliant intellectual tools reduced to their employment in the existing, sacred power structures. We are the elders who recount heroic, nameless strikes against the organs of everyday business. We are the succeeding inevitability of the free individual.
Proudly godless, proudly wild, proudly defective to every metric of economy and collective symmetry, every outraged accusation is absorbed with an affirming stoicism:
“Yes, we are infatuated with life. Yes, we are self-centered and orient relations accordingly. Yes, we endure towards the abolition of every system, of every righteous decree, of every political section. Yes, our enemies are the ‘god’ of Abraham, society, dogma, morals, prisons, police. Yes, our ends are boundless prairies by means of unthinkable subversions, relentless upsets and mercilessness for universal mercy.”
No system of thought can come close. No school of philosophy — even one belonging to anarchism — can articulate the violent impulse to overcome and weave for oneself their own peace. Anarchism may issue its various claims; the substantive anarchy of the individual is all that those -isms truly point to.
Nothing can be greater, nothing can be more real than the lone individual who has gripped the rod bearing the black flag — and rammed it into the eye of god himself.
Nothing can be stronger, nothing can be more durable than the silent contemplation of the daring anarchist who carries a sovereign universe and territory within them.
Nothing can sound the last whimper of archy like the sharp blade of self-realization against its every stagnating appendage.
Anarchy is the black vessel in which freedom’s fire consumes the old and leaves a welcoming aura ’round the new.
Brilliant fires, unnameable hues and intoxicating vapors impress upon the young rebel and her band of merry life-lovers. They with other cells will raise the dead skull of the unified logic of all archy and plunge it into the ocean. They will fertilize their gardens with the ashes of old masters. And they will surpass all notion of heaven with immediate life made greater than any divine.
Contribution by Anonymous