At least we can talk about how much we hate it, this world – that’s something, isn’t it? At least it allows us that.
It likes it. It likes to mock us by indulging it. By letting us say whatever we like. And then showing total indifference. Showing that resistance is futile and laughable and stupid.
And that’s it’s totally accounted for – that’s the thing. That it’s expected – that it’s all calculated. That it’s all organised and fucking managed.
The great futility: that’s what we’re supposed to be reminded of. Our futility. And everything does remind us of that. All their smiles. Their welcomes. All the nice things they tell us are just to remind us of our total impotence. That this is how it is and how it will be, now and forever.
We’re exactly where they want us. We’re doing exactly what we’re supposed to. We’re fulfilling our role – our non-role. We’re deepening our irrelevancy.
We haven’t even been arrested. Haven’t even been DEW’d.
We raise no red flags. There’s no warrant out for our arrest. We appear on no wanted posters. There’s no bounty on our heads.
We’re a type, and they know our type. They know what to do with us. What box we fit in.
They’ve got us where they want us. They’ve parked us here. We’re nothing to fear.
No need for any special attention to be paid to us. We’re not worth the effort to assassinate.
They know our inputs and our outputs. We’re predictable. Mappable. Even obvious.
Only if they want us to be the resistance. And they probably do. They probably brought us here to have a resistance. To enjoy having a resistance. It was a kind of gift to themselves: a resistance. To see what we’d do. Whether we might surprise them. So vive le resistance, right?
Work in Progress 