Thursday, December 31, 2009
Our being is on fire. Behind the bars we have set ourselves, sometimes
even for our own selves.
Our being is on fire. In front of shiny storefronts, between humans who
demand nothing. In the workspaces, the consumerist “wants”, in
the economy’s suffocating flow. In representation, idleness, the
rottenness that eats away the last cells of the social body. In the
teaching rooms, in the teachers’ orders, the dreams of capitalist
integration. In the boring evenings in front of the talking box, in
the “socialising” evenings, in the distribution of whatever
lifestyles to all in order to become accepted. In the norms and
boxes, in laws, cops and their collaborators. In fear and weakness,
in resignations, in self-destructing engagements with whatever
soothes the pain born by meaningless life.
Our being is on fire. And we ask nothing from this world and everyone who
digs it. We insist, we bleed, we risk for ourselves and for this
world’s destruction and wonder if there are others ready to
accompany us in the nights of struggle.
Our being is on fire.
Decisions are quickened, denials are erected. Another small breath…
Until the next one, with no end, now and for ever.
Our being is on fire. For the imprisoned co-warriors, those who acted in
the age of the dead. Those who neither regretted nor regret. Those
who paid the price for their choices without ever lowering their
gaze. Those who dared and who will dare again, who never learned how
to kneel.
Our being is on fire. For Polis [Georgiadis] and for Ilias [Nikolaou],
whose outlines we are missing. To Polis and to Ilias, who behind
walls share with us, and we share with them the same madness, the
same bloody awry that allows us free breaths. Even if these words
cannot swap their agony and wrath as physical presences next to ours.
Our being is on fire. And we still have a long way to go. It will fuel
new attacks and will take whatever retaliation.
Our being is on fire and we simply air it, in this case by torching to
the ground the luxury clothing shop Prince Oliver in the center of
Thessaloniki.
We don’t stop and for this reason the enemy has already lost. War
without a breath.
May the deafening charge to the stars become this society’s death
rattle.
Explosive Material