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The traitor has his reasons that reason ignores
In thought, order, not orders
I don't want to take orders. Neither good nor bad. No power steering and no Simone. Concern for the norm is a mental illness. Stupid are the great number and the vanity of common jubilation. Death, death, death. The work is finished. The only thing that counts is splintering, and insecurity is for everyone. The only way out is to stop being so stupid all the time. That means improving ourselves, stopping mindless reproduction, understanding the suffering of all life, identifying our cowardice and audacity. From there, it's a matter of taking responsibility for our behaviour with a clear conscience. Without advertising, silly embellishments, advertising, mannerisms, cretinous sociability, humour below the minimum wage for intellectual fantasy. At that point, either we eradicate a lot of people, or we believe in everyone's desire for autonomous progress. Personally, I don't believe in it. We need paramilitary forces, order and not orders, in our desire for freedom, and too few human beings know how to endure it. So social death.
It's hard to bear unless it's done from a great distance, just as plastic chickens are a long way from slaughterhouses and the idea of a living animal. We can try to find something else. Flogging yourself is one solution, because humanity is made up of a great bunch of idiots, including yourself. So it's a good thing that we're learning to keep our mouths shut about mentally uninformed bullshit, both in ourselves and in others.
Imbecility is knowing only how to live. It's the selfishness of someone who can't, doesn't want to think. Before you can pretend to think about other people, about nature and all that, you have to think at all.
To remain silent would be a decent way to stifle or kill the thought which, in any case, will always be the painful expression of an absurd order given to oneself by the vanity of one's own mental bourgeoisie.
One morning I was awakened by a feeling of sadness in my rectum. And it was the beauty of the world. And it was the stupidity of the world. Both merged into the same sharp, palpable tension. Something forbade itself to come out. An ambiguity refused to express itself. Who was I at that other end of me? Did I still exist there?
Is there still something of the thinking self at this extreme pole of the individual, at the antipodes of his head? Like us, many living beings in this system are simultaneously thinking machines and shitting machines. Yes, but in what order?
Do we think about what we shit or do we shit about thinking? Does the shit we expel through our anus come back to our heads every day by a boomerang effect? Or is it simply concomitant? Perhaps it is the true dual destiny of animals and humans to have to shit as much as to think?
Suddenly a lull. The calm of an escaping gas.
