Wednesday 10 June 2009
We don’t expect anything from this society anymore. What it imposes on us disgusts us; what it offers us doesn’t interest us. We don’t want to submit anymore to the routines of work just for a few crumbs in exchange for our obedience; we don’t want our only dreams to be whatever television shows us.
They’ve already killed us thousands of times. In school, where they pound into our heads the idea that just following along with the flock is better than stubbornly believing in going your own way. At work, where the rhythms of production and the exigencies of money suffocate our beating hearts aspiring to freedom. At home, where antidepressants and family traditions drown us in the habit of resignation. In prisons or detention centers, where society confirms our status as undesirables. In churches, mosques or synagogues, where the promise of a paradise purchased in exchange for an authoritarian morality makes us forget that we live in the present. This society is in love with death and represses life.
This society has the whole world on a leash; it’s just a little longer sometimes. We’re not the kind to fight for a looser collar, a higher wage, a less brutal police force, more honest and concerned politicians. We just want what any being held on a leash wants: we want to cut the leash, set the fucking cage on fire, and crush everyone that’d tried to keep us on that leash, or would like to.
This explosion of passion for life isn’t some great final moment to patiently await; it’s a everyday thing, and it gets more and more intense as it accelerates and spreads. Maybe it’s confused sometimes, not always knowing where to strike so as to break the chains of slavery to and membership in all this, but it’s alive. Revolt, the scream of life against a society of the dead, expresses itself in thousands of rainbow colors: from attacks on the police that section off our streets, to injuries inflicted on oh-so-sacrosanct property; from sabotage against the structures of domination like banks, temp agencies, supermarkets, and institutions of all kinds, to clear and plain refusals to let ourselves be controlled, humiliated, regimented.
The revolt isn’t simply about disgust; it’s also about joy. The joy of affirming that in spite of all we are ALIVE. That in spite of the reigning alienation, our pathways of revolt are still crossing, and the possibility of building ties of complicity are never entirely annihilated.
In the fury of action, we forge our dreams of a world without masters or slaves, little by little. They’ll necessarily be attacked because they create fissures; but desires are what undermine the social edifice.