“I cannot be the only one who basks in the illusion by breaking it. When did we grow ears to the story of value that is told through us, the root of our essence as social beings? Such brilliant fiction, and so undeniably true. We live in language, says the bedridden poet. Our chain of command ends imperceptibly in the murky origins of words. Yes, we grew ears to the story of value, but our ears are not incapable of hearing beyond. Let us celebrate that wicked illusion that we perceive as breaking itself. We are here, warm, clad, and fed, and there are our concerns spiraling ahead of us like sickly songbirds foreboding our discomfort and eventual dissolution. We are here, children of this lot, bound by the unbreakable chains of our own illusion.
“I look at the shadows of the chairs on the wooden floor, the lights causing them are mounted on the ceiling, like insignificant suns. The cafe is not at the end of the world, its static appearance only something of the last few years. It is bright, and there are no closing hours. Sounds have grown familiar to my ears, and I have felt a longing to return here, though what I find here is nothing besides these words and the imagery that is coexistant with them, simultaneously cause and effect of the quality of my being here. I see women moving, their gentle shapes touching and warming the air.
“The truth that society is larger than me I accept – I imagine myself in a prison toward the end of my life, convicted of crimes invented to trivialize my dissent.I am a running man, I follow the stars of my freedom, that I see high above my horizons and deep within my fantasies. I am running, with the cold breath of society in my neck. Eventually, I will be integrated, a statue on a cemetery, a page in an anthology. Being given a proper place, my freedom reduced to the organon of what remains, a wingless fantasy.
“If not “issues” with taxation, intellectual property rights, legal residency, citizen status, social security, driver’s license, counterterrorism, they will invent the means to subdue. To subdue is to create the subject. He who doesn’t recognize a master will be the slave of his own whims. The thinking thing is the thing that gives himself up, thinking is that process made bearable, stretched out over the course of a lifelong “production” in society.