This is a note to ourselves. This is for us. Any perception that such and such detail is about you, or referring to a particular person not explicitly named, but who’s definitely sure they’re the one being discussed is only signing their own guilty consciousness’s death sentence. Leave us alone.
“When the whole of reality is spectacular, to refuse the spectacle means to be outside reality. Anyone who refuses the code of commodities is mad. Refusal to bow down before the commodity god will result in one’s being committed to a mental asylum.”“Armed Joy” (1977) by Alfredo Bonanno
Sickness is a forced happiness sterilizing action. Action isn’t accomplished by contentedness, civility, or responsibility. Such “words” – bursting with ideological assumptions – are mental chains that enforce physical prohibitions. We refuse such silly notions from silly narrow minded individuals who can hardly understand gender, much less why the current society-cum-reality they pathetically defend with their pathetic rhetoric and pathetic smiles is a death trap of epic proportions.
The dreams of such useful idiots – the only idiots we recognize: that being, the political kind – are dystopian dreams of slaughter and blood. Reactionary bile. Fascistic mastabatory wet dreams.
We spit on these delusions of grandeur. It takes very little to destroy them. Violence, our friends, is their only true weakness.
Sure! They might have the police, the judges, the lawyers, the politicians, the parents, and the teachers. But! They don’t have passion or life. They exist in states of soullessness. They can only enact silly violence, haphazardly. It might look and feel targeted, intense, and overwhelming, but it is predicated on homogenous power structures. They’re violent because it’s easy for them to get away with it.
Our violence is that of the insane. The outcast. The oppressed. The bullied. The downtrodden. The erratic gaslighted who eventually comes to the realization that their world has been stolen and only blood will bring it back.
Our violence can’t be stopped because it is not predicated on upholding any norm. It doesn’t matter how a cop or judge dies. Just that they’re dead. We rejoice in their spilled blood.
Fuck useful idiot concepts of “we’re better than them,” pacifism, or righteousness. We don’t pretend to give a rats ass about loving our enemy. They either choose to stop being our enemy, or they die on their knees. No remorse. No tears for the fuckers who destroy lives, rip families apart, force humans in boxes, steal their livelihoods, or bomb their communities. You chose. Now you die.
Of course, we’re not saying they’ll physically die. It doesn’t really matter how it ends for them, or how the end looks or what it means. These people are already effectively dead. They’ve denied their humanity and the humanity of others for finite riches. Castles made of sand, as it’s said. You can’t kill what isn’t alive.
The gospel of contentedness is preached on every hill and tv box. Every fuckin channel spreaders this poison. It sells faux-happiness in exchange for a loss of self. It even sells faux-revolution to appease the burrowing hole inside of us all. But there’s nothing revolutionary about getting a raise, thinking positive thoughts, or going on a diet or exercise routine. The norm isn’t change, no matter how much money is thrown behind the ads.
Everyone is sold faux-selves. We’ve chosen to alter ourselves to a point of intricacy. We don’t adhere to the selling of persons, whether physically or mentally.
In this sense, we’ve chosen the only thing left: militant action against the monstrosity. Anything goes. Pure destruction in the name of endless hope. Joyful militancy in the name of reclaiming a sense of self, a sense of communal joy. Love doesn’t exist within the hyper-individualism of inspirational quotes, lifestyle curation, or responsibility politics.
We reject a life built on the fabrication of lies. Who fuckin’ cares about 401ks, gym memberships, or Instagram? Our lives certainly don’t. Their agenda, however, does.
I – we can’t tell you how much we haaaaate. Hate the lies. Hate the fuckers who defend the walls with guns. We hate the suffering and the ones who instill it, and we don’t believe for one minute that we’re a part of the problem for doing so. In fact! Hate is the answer! Get some goddamn action in your blood! Hate your enemies and love those they persecute.
You can’t love that which is dead.
They killed off their souls.
We’re only pointing it out. Who gives a shit if it makes them sad. They could’ve opted to not die alone. They could’ve challenged…anything. They could’ve…lived…just for once. They could’ve loved…..fuck…….oh my god………we’re all dead inside. I just…wanna feel alive. We…wanna love.
Hate should cause us to act. The hate of the prejudiced, jealous, and self-obsessed is not a productive or positive hate. It eats them alive. Ours propels us forward! It isn’t the only emotion capable of propelling us into revolutionary action, but is a looked down one. It deserves its true potential seen for what is: an emotion that can focus our attention on liberation.
Concentration camps and plantations weren’t liberated through love.
People are afraid to get militant. So in an effort to avoid the reality of the situation, they craft silly ideological barriers to prevent acting. Hippie concepts of love, and bourgeois civility politics and the pleasantries associated with “democracies” are a mind-limiting fog of war that conceals the violence of everyday life, and subsequently the violence necessary to end it.