A thorn in the side
Silence is danger, darkness intoxicates risk. It is anguish that generates the void, the sensation of finding oneself on the bridge from where you look down and see the abyss, where you cannot tear your gaze away from the abyss opening up before the world: but it is precisely in moments like this that you tend to feel alive, without mediation of any kind.
The clamour of industry or a steady trickle of devices, like democratic chatter, are unbearable because imagination, sedition, sensitivity, contemplation, and daydreaming are flattened and substituted by the constant bombardment of news, messages, notification alerts, impositions to consume and calls to the order of war.
The megamachine engulfs, sleeping slavery wears invisible chains and the impotence felt goes with the flow of continual massacres and genocides.
The chain of command only exists thanks to hierarchy. Hierarchy is based on the net distinction and separation between who obeys and who gives the orders. The weak link in this chain is the communication between them, materialised by sinister strategists and soldiers armed to the teeth. By switching this off, nothing could more could continue.
Deserting the frontal clash and striking at the sides would allow one to escape the symmetrical logics of war, always a disadvantage for rebels. When you’re struggling to keep up with orders it is always a social body or a mass of people who obey; when on the other hand the desire for a break with power takes over, small groups and individuals can act freely, striking wherever they please according to their conscience and their ideas alone.
To think of power and its arrogance as something monolithic and relentless does not allow individuals to imagine attacks that can open cracks and fissures in the time of oppression, but it could lead one to imagine what seems impossible at the moment. And if a blackout were to lay the basis for expressing one’s rebel tensions? And if the silencing of power could make one hear the noise of chaos?
And if a broken window were to spread the idea of burning all the money in the world? And if a high-voltage pylon were to fall and the dark of the necropolises made visible the aura of hidden dreams never expressed?
The decay and death of this society can give birth to something quite other. Think of cancer, a collection of formless cells and not encodable by the system itself, which don’t collaborate and oppose themselves to its regular functioning. The carcinoma finds the lymph nodes in its way that block it and like servants, united in organicity and communicating among themselves protect the system.
Sometimes, due to a malfunctioning, the cancer spreads like disorder and does not allow the Behemoth to sustain itself. And if one were to imagine the lymph node as an antenna, a security camera, a smartphone, a recorder, a data centre or a pylon that collects, controls, and exchanges enormous quantities of data and information, the cancerous cells, anonymous and anomalous, would incarnate that which carries death to the system.
If the night were to take on the appearance of wonder and the solitude of the moon were to set clear ideas on fire, just a little knowledge, tools that anyone can find and so many wonderful angry-ones without bosses or slaves would suffice to inflict total silence on this society of horror.
anonymous and anomalous
Translated by Act for freedom now!