Egress

Wake up, think fuck. Thought being the driving force of the illusion of freedom. Freedom being the illusory ideal holding Western civilization together.

We are only ever nine meals away from anarchy. Nine missed meals would reveal the mutability of our so-called values and beliefs. Nine missed meals would not spare a thought for freedom but would do or say anything to make the hunger go away.

Get up, feel disbelief. There is always something ‘holding us back’, ‘keeping us down, ‘getting in the way’. For Trump and his despicable ilk, it is the state, factuality and rule of law. For H, it is his crippling mortgage (a 25-year sentence with no hope of parole or early release). For J it is a niggling sense of discontentment (lucky her). For most Westerners, it is some combination of: low wages, self-loathing, long hours, insufficient funds, insufficient attractiveness, self-division, thwarted ambition, chronic confusion, sexual frustration, intellectual diminution, bad conscience, loneliness, absence of hominess, and total dependence on strangers for survival (plumbers, electricians, carpenters, chemists, technicians, farmers, etc.).

I knew a woman who masturbated to the idea of freedom. Fascinated by her abstract choice of erotica, I asked her what it felt like. Sadly, she couldn’t really say.

Sit, shit. Give a man enough rope and he’ll hang himself. Give a person enough freedom and they’ll drown in it.

Up and at it. I am free to appreciate my biological bondage, the thought-pulling puppetry behind me, and my emotional retardation (largely down to the madeleine in my pants).

Take a break, breathe freely. If freedom means anything, it is the ability to think anything, to think against oneself, to think in the shoes of those you hate, to think in the footsteps of those you fear, to think beyond all moral prohibitions. Freedom is to venture into the heart of human darkness and voluntarily return to the person you believe yourself to be (personally, I renounced personhood a long time ago).

Yawn, stretch. I am thankful for my social and political freedom. The state keeps me alive. Western civilization keeps me breathing (albeit my existence is so compromised that I am a pale version of myself).

I am never late for meetings and appointments.

I always know (roughly) what time it is.

I feel no allegiance to anything except some vague, mercurial idea of Western freedom.

On balance, humanity is not worth defending.

On balance, freedom is a protracted exercise in failure.

The fight for freedom goes on. Millions (ultimately billions) will die for it. Different flags will lay claim to it. Competing ideologies will clash over it. Monuments will honour it and movies will dramatize it. One woman I know will masturbate over it. Downtrodden cocks will rise up for it, oppressed pussies will strive for it. Melting glaciers will aspire to it, landlocked plastic will dream of it, capital will flow across borders towards it. Even the lowly atom will get ideas into its nucleic head and want some.

Freedom-loving folk are dangerous extremists. I take freedom for granted. The freedom to wear the same socks for days on end. The freedom to despair at the irreparable idiocy of people. The freedom to be sad, bored and endlessly repeat the same mistakes. I do not confuse freedom with the ever-receding horizon of motion. I do not mistake freedom for power or gain. To believe in freedom as an ideological end-in-itself is to condemn yourself to disappointment. Feel free to be no more or less than you are, with all your pitiful limitations and shortcomings. Feel free, instead, to face the reality of your insignificance.

Puff, cough. My personal Doomsday Clock is at three minutes to midnight. As a veteran of life, I know how to pace myself, to ration the misery, to hold out until the weekend. But my (limited) freedom is killing me. I would gladly get into bed with an (attractive, benign) dictator, just so long as she didn’t tell me what to think, or try to curtail my self-destructive habits, or make fun of my secessionist feet.

 

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