We’re the resistance – don’t forget that.
But what do we actually resist? We just go along with things and moan.
But it’s a beautiful moaning. It’s a transcendental moaning.
We’ve become inured to this world. We’ve accepted its terms. We’ve surrendered. We’ve put our hands up. And they didn’t even demand our surrender …
They didn’t ask for anything – not explicitly. They knew we’d behave. They couldn’t conceive of our not behaving. Of sweeping all the food from the tables. Of overturning the fucking tables.
We don’t need them as our prison guards. We confine ourselves. We tell ourselves off. We lock ourselves down.
We’re captives – that’s clear. They’ve captured us. Psychologically. We’re trapped in our own heads. We’re walled up inside ourselves. We’re our own prison cells, our own warders, our own prison guards.
We’ve locked ourselves up. We’re collaborators. We’ve betrayed ourselves. We’ve sold all our secrets. We’re our own secret police. Keeping watch on who we are.
We’re internalising all of this. It’s becoming our soul. It’s what our souls are: prison cells. And we don’t even know it. The world’s been captured, and so have we.
How did we become so reasonable? Years of training. Years of obedience school. Like cows led by the nose-ring. Look at us. We can’t put up the slightest protest. Because we know it’s futile.
This impossibility … this strangulation. Should force us into thinking. The very crampedness … The very fact that there’s nowhere to go … That we can’t manoeuvre.
It should force us into … what?
The only thing that interests me is the end of the world. That’s what I want to tell them about: the end of the world. And not their human-made climate change. Not their climate mitigation strategies. Not some manageable transition away from fossil fuels. Fuck that.
Some sudden end. Some cosmological event. Some galactic force that’s ripping the rings off Saturn. About which there’s fuck all to be done.
I want to go home and crawl into bed. And, like, comfort-masturbate.
Work in Progress 