“Freedom is stifling. There’s not much to do when you are free as a bird – for one, you don’t have wings. What’s freedom if you cannot fly? It would be exhilarating to see dainty men and women flying mid air showing off their freedom, and the un-free masses walking down below on mere feet, the indelible blemish of their caged existence keeping them down to earth. And second, you are big. Too big. Ants should be free, and are free, unless of course some stupid kid puts them in a box. They are free in their minds, as they have none. Caterpillars, snails, flies, wasps, moths, those stinking light bugs, they deserve to be free. It suits them. Not men. Not women. Not anyone and anything that matters.
We are too important and too big to be dragged into this freedom debate. We are to be chained and bound if there is to be any hope for us. Our feet stuck in the quagmire of reliable and ragged principles. Our heads filled to their cortex with some cheap idealism, or some cheaper cause. (Look at me, I support walls and I will fight for their rights till my death.) We want some bloated head to hover over us, its nostrils flaring at the daily drudgery of ours. We want a leader to bind us and drag us through this engulfing desert of disappointments and betrayals and Valentine’s Days. We want someone to meddle with our lives, torment us with dreams of a great future, and mix it up with just enough hopes and disappointments so that we carry on. We want instruments be made of us, and we don’t care who’s playing.
You see what I am talking about? A pervasive communism that would put Plato and Marx to shame – we all eating each other’s food, resting on each other’s shoulders, fucking each other’s wives, killing each other’s hopes, dying on each other’s doors. Doing what’s told, undoing what’s not. Putting cats on a higher pedestal than dogs. Worshipping only one god. The one that spies on us, the one who shames, humiliates, destroys – everything what love does – the one who is after our lives, thirsty for our blood. A scared populace. A strong, servile nation. A reality that annihilates alternatives. A defeated race of materialists holding on to anything that looks like would occupy space. Clingy, clamorous, hopeless – of course, in a good way.”
Lwoyoblrig Bughum is an out-of-work balladeer. To know more about him click here. To know about how he fell in love with a cat, click here.
Goblinsnephew 