The only things our society readily gives people to express themselves with are products.
Literature, music, poetry, and art are no less products in this way. Upper-middle-class people are no less curators of themselves out of consumables.
In the Capitol there is a wild diversity in food and clothing, but the souls are all pale and lukewarm.
In resistance there are very few flavors, very hard to discern, very deep-down. But between resistance and consumption you can taste the difference like you can between protein and sugar.
I am staggered by the sorrow that is already here.
Have you been to /r/climate lately? I am overwhelmed by the sorrow that is to come.
But what is there left but to resist? I will help build communism at the south pole if I have to. Better than this woeful indignity, where my people resort to gorging on plastic because the only unadulterated spirit to be found is in rebelling against the strongest military ever to exist.
The way they tell the story–the way they have tried to make sure the story goes–there is so little daylight between the death the imperialists and the fascists promise us and the true life that rebellion brings.
And as Malcolm said, the price of freedom was never anything but death.
But with that said–I don’t know how to say it–the people are indomitable, they are a pressurized gas bursting through the walls of history. In the tiniest beam of light that pours through, the people will flood through and crack their system, and break their military apart on the rocks of time.
If most of the earth becomes unlivable, so be it. Let the sun of communism shine at the south pole, under enormous glass domes if it has to.