Anarchists Make Better Lovers...
Anarchists Make Better Lovers…
I walked beside her and we peeled oranges as we passed capitol and expense. "They are scared, useless without the state!" She exclaimed. I looked up as a garbage truck and its workers diligently collected trash as if they were worker ants collecting sugar for the queen.
"I agree," I said, as I always did, because I was always thinking what she was so perfectly articulating. It was an art, an art I was all too lucky to have witnessed.
We walked all day, yelling at business men who strayed up sidewalks in hopeless suits grasping onto suitcases as if they were carrying secrets and souls inside of them. We walked passed churches and discussed reality with nuns and spoke of myths with priests. We slept under apple trees and laughed as we skipped through open fields. We walked out of town into the countryside and harvested blueberries with small farm owners who read by candlelight and called one room shacks home.
The further we walked, the more I fell in love. We succumbed to lust in meadows filled with tall grass dimly lit by a half-moon. We dropped our guard and let oppression scratch at our skin in large, boxy schools where students communicated the summaries of their favorite TV shows and let books made of lies dangle from their shoulders. We stumbled across small communities where the children were raised by everyone who was older than themselves, where clothing was the latest technology, where necessity wasn't an obstacle but a marriage.
We moved from town to town, through cities by way of railcars and foot. We would take turns using each other's lap as a means to resting our heads. We ran across train stations to catch the next coach to anywhere and sat among strangers who loved to remain strangers. We skipped up and down streets named after famous men we'd vow to destroy, screaming bloody murder at uniformed authoritarians who deemed love insane and passion criminal.
We ate honestly and slept coherently. We fell in love every morning and every night, infinitely. Waking up and realizing that this was more than a dream, I took her hand and we walked further through culture only to find processed lives and systematic signs. We became enraged, once again, when we realized something had to be done. There was no time to wait; we had seen all that we needed to see to conclude that civilization had to come down. Culture had to be stopped. We looked each other in the eye and found deep passion; desperation ran thick through our stream of vision. "The enemy is passion," I said. "We are the passionate." she declared.
I walked beside her and we peeled oranges as we passed capitol and expense. "They are scared, useless without the state!" She exclaimed. I looked up as a garbage truck and its workers diligently collected trash as if they were worker ants collecting sugar for the queen.
"I agree," I said, as I always did, because I was always thinking what she was so perfectly articulating. It was an art, an art I was all too lucky to have witnessed.
We walked all day, yelling at business men who strayed up sidewalks in hopeless suits grasping onto suitcases as if they were carrying secrets and souls inside of them. We walked passed churches and discussed reality with nuns and spoke of myths with priests. We slept under apple trees and laughed as we skipped through open fields. We walked out of town into the countryside and harvested blueberries with small farm owners who read by candlelight and called one room shacks home.
The further we walked, the more I fell in love. We succumbed to lust in meadows filled with tall grass dimly lit by a half-moon. We dropped our guard and let oppression scratch at our skin in large, boxy schools where students communicated the summaries of their favorite TV shows and let books made of lies dangle from their shoulders. We stumbled across small communities where the children were raised by everyone who was older than themselves, where clothing was the latest technology, where necessity wasn't an obstacle but a marriage.
We moved from town to town, through cities by way of railcars and foot. We would take turns using each other's lap as a means to resting our heads. We ran across train stations to catch the next coach to anywhere and sat among strangers who loved to remain strangers. We skipped up and down streets named after famous men we'd vow to destroy, screaming bloody murder at uniformed authoritarians who deemed love insane and passion criminal.
We ate honestly and slept coherently. We fell in love every morning and every night, infinitely. Waking up and realizing that this was more than a dream, I took her hand and we walked further through culture only to find processed lives and systematic signs. We became enraged, once again, when we realized something had to be done. There was no time to wait; we had seen all that we needed to see to conclude that civilization had to come down. Culture had to be stopped. We looked each other in the eye and found deep passion; desperation ran thick through our stream of vision. "The enemy is passion," I said. "We are the passionate." she declared.