As the tide of the world turns against freedom, I turn,
inevitably against the world. There is nothing to be gained in this fight, I
will be isolated, broken and destroyed, maybe my dearest ones will be too. But
what do I have if I do not have my resistance? I acknowledge the madness of my
rage, that it will lead to no good place, but it is also the madness of my
life. If I cannot live free, I do not know how I would live at all.
Prudence, moderation, cool thinking, are the need of the
hour, but I do not have these virtues, have never had. I am a hound of justice;
I can only pursue a scent and attack the monster, even if the monster is too
large and will break me. I can only howl in my rage and fear, knowing that my
time has come, and there is nothing that I can do to put off this war.
Today I live in a country whose government considers me an enemy.
Or if not an enemy, a nuisance, or an irrelevance. I consider it the same.
There can be no compromise between us. Our conflict is basic. The very root of
this government is based on the subjugation of people like me, and my every
single instinct is to uproot this hideous thing, and cover my nostrils as its
rots.
There are the survivors. Those who will think of tomorrow,
of the future, of a better day in this land of ours, but I know this truth,
there will be no better day while this thing survives, while it feeds on the
power it has won. Its nature is to bend things to its way, and the longer it
does that, the more it will have the power to bend others. Some will do so out
of paltry gain, for the things that glitter, for the envy in other people’s
eyes. Others will do it because they desire the odious things within themselves
to be released, and feel that they will be able to do so under the darkness is
now cast. Then there are the fools, there are always the fools, who think that
this will not touch them, that after all, it is the others that are being
targeted, that are being killed. Ah, the fools, they will always be with us,
the sickness of humanity that we can never truly wash clean from our skins, the
folly that is evil by another name, a selfishness that can see nothing beyond
its own skin.
There are the wise, too, the unmoved, who see humanity for
what it is: a flicker, a blink, beautiful, grotesque and truly, truly
insignificant. They can look beyond this moment, they can look beyond all our
moments, they can take in the long breath, and release it as slowly into the
universe. They will not speak, but they might have counselled caution, would
have said that rot arises from dead things, and maggots feed on corpses. It is
only death that has brought out these diseased things, and that once the dying
is done, these feeders on the dead will also die. Life is a reaching for the
light, and it will not be forever bent. The soft root will break through
concrete and steel, and the plant, once perched, will grow, will steal poison
from the air, from the soil, and will clean this earth. The nature of things is
clean, it is healthy, this rot cannot long survive.
But I am neither a survivor, nor am I of the wise. For me
there is only confrontation, there is only death.
