Our being is on fire. Behind the bars we have set ourselves, sometimes even for our own selves.
Our being is on fire. In front of shiny storefronts, between humans who demand nothing. In the workspaces, the consumerist “wants”, in the economy’s suffocating flow. In representation, idleness, the rottenness that eats away the last cells of the social body. In the teaching rooms, in the teachers’ orders, the dreams of capitalist integration. In the boring evenings in front of the talking box, in the “socialising” evenings, in the distribution of whatever lifestyles to all in order to become accepted. In the norms and boxes, in laws, cops and their collaborators. In fear and weakness, in resignations, in self-destructing engagements with whatever soothes the pain born by meaningless life.
Our being is on fire. And we ask nothing from this world and everyone who digs it. We insist, we bleed, we risk for ourselves and for this world’s destruction and wonder if there are others ready to accompany us in the nights of struggle.
Our being is on fire. Decisions are quickened, denials are erected. Another small breath… Until the next one, with no end, now and for ever.
Our being is on fire. For the imprisoned co-warriors, those who acted in the age of the dead. Those who neither regretted nor regret. Those who paid the price for their choices without ever lowering their gaze. Those who dared and who will dare again, who never learned how to kneel.
Our being is on fire. For Polis [Georgiadis] and for Ilias [Nikolaou], whose outlines we are missing. To Polis and to Ilias, who behind walls share with us, and we share with them the same madness, the same bloody awry that allows us free breaths. Even if these words cannot swap their agony and wrath as physical presences next to ours.
Our being is on fire. And we still have a long way to go. It will fuel new attacks and will take whatever retaliation.
Our being is on fire and we simply air it, in this case by torching to the ground the luxury clothing shop Prince Oliver in the center of Thessaloniki.
We don’t stop and for this reason the enemy has already lost. War without a breath.
May the deafening charge to the stars become this society’s death rattle.