1. |
XXXI
01:14
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2. |
XXXII
05:51
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They talk about law and order, but who do those things serve? Who sat comfortable behind locked doors composing the codes, and whose order is served by their enforcement? Whose lives have no place in the world they imply? The agents who embody the law, cocooned within menacing armor, wielding the weapons of war, who do they answer to and who becomes the subject of their wrath? The law is never neutral, and one’s order is another’s cage. Law and order: These words are a thieves’ cant for those who will steal your humanity and sell it back for the cheapest illusion of security. These words are weapons. Bullets to quell an uprising. Dirt to pour on the graves of those we sacrifice on their altar. And when those words are uttered, you find out too late if you’re the one pointing the gun, or the one who is staring down the barrel.
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3. |
XXXIII
07:49
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Don’t you dare ask why so-called patriots turn their backs on you when the state comes, masked and armed, raining violence upon your street. And don’t waste your time wondering where conspiracy theorists are when the very real machinations of the powerful strip you of your rights. These liars and cowards have covered up their hatred of you with the thinest veneer of fraudulent integrity, wrapped up in torn and tattered flags, feigning grandiosity, when all they really want is to watch you suffer and die. One cannot cherish freedom while fetishizing violence and fear. So never allow yourself to be surprised by the capacity for cruelty of those who claim the mantle of righteousness and decency. Their morality is counterfeit. Their decorum is a lie. Merely a masquerade to hide their one true goal: their boot on your neck.
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4. |
XXXIV
03:32
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As a child, the liars present a version of the world to you so sanitized and incomplete, it might as well be fantasy. The police are your friends, the government works for you, anybody can be whatever they want. These platitudes are the very foundation of a whole rhetorical structure of half-truths, misdirection, and outright lies. The fiction is needed: their power rests on our belief, and if we truly knew what they said behind closed doors they know we would never acquiesce to their authority. They know that we’d see through their craven falsity. We’d tear down their fictional palaces. They would sacrifice any truth if it means they keep us under their thumbs.
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5. |
XXXV
06:44
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When brutalities and indignities are piled one on top of the other, like corpses in a mass grave or shells ejected from a smoking gun, it can be easy to forget them, each in turn. For a new tragedy pushes the last off the front page. Each new barbarity wipes the last from our minds. We become inured to the steady drip of sadism. Numb to the slow erosion of the humanity in our souls. So we are only truly able to comprehend what they’ve done to us when we speak the name of each cruelty, we cast the blame on each culprit, we speak the name of each victim, we cast the blame for each savagery. Only then can we see the bleak picture that these endless dots together create when viewed as a whole. Their masterpiece of incessant contempt. Their opus of blood and agony. A study in indignity.
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6. |
XXXVI
04:59
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We offer up our time, our minds, we offer up our very souls to be grist in their mill. Merely the inputs and outputs in their soulless algorithm. Our love, our hate, our fear, our arrogance; stolen, repackaged, and sold back to us with knife’s edge precision. When you look around this world and wonder how it got this way, tell me: would it surprise you to hear that they put their thumb on the scale? They want you angry. They need you uninformed. They pray to their omnipresent God, begging for your despair. Anything to keep you scrolling. Whatever it takes to keep you circling the drain. The next thing coming ever faster, raging at you from the soft glow of a tiny screen, pulling you along, forever deeper in, always further down. The code sees your soul, like no human could, a calculating gaze that deconstructs you into small parts so it can put you back together again, so much less human but so much more profitable.
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7. |
XXXVII
10:38
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It’s endless. No respite from the uncertainty. Our lives have the stability of houses built on sand. It’s everywhere. No one is safe. A whole population in perpetual decline. Anxiety our sacred religion. Loneliness our most venerated god. Bound by frayed ends of time and trapped by these walls, labyrinthine in their construction, which we designed to keep us isolated from each other because we've embraced a death cult of individuality. Blindly worshiping a pantheon that demands of us a hatred of community. That admonishes us to see any human connection as the ultimate weakness. Demanding, instead, we work ourselves to death. Deceiving you with doctored images of a mythical past. Enticing you with greatness, so they can profit off your pain. The same people that steal your life are the ones who tell you your agony makes you strong. For what could be more noble than to suffer and die for them, alone?
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8. |
Outside
05:54
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Originally by Funeral Oration.
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