So how can you blame us when we get a taste for destruction?
We live the revenge-torture films we’ve been spoon fed. I remember the first time I saw a cop break someone’s arm. Let me set the scene: A cloud of pepper spray was slowly settling on us as we ran. From a hill overlooking the street that 80 of us had been marching down moments ago, our coughing and wheezing fused the strange mixture of fear and exhilaration into a single feeling. Suddenly, we saw four cops pounce on one of the stragglers. Tackled, she fell hard. Her howls became part of a single emotion. Like a fine wine, or better yet, expensive perfume, my memories of protest have a distinctive smell composed of many complex notes. And I protest like any good connoisseur, avoiding boring or bland actions, while seeking out every chance to experience a slice of the sublime.
Sure, we come up with excuses or even justifications after the gravity from activist bureaucrats black holes suck us in. A handful of those who call themselves ‘activists’ are even worthy of our forgiveness. They came from families that taught them the virtues of keeping daily planners, following teachers orders, and completing homework on time. But the rest of us long shrugged off the need to find success by following the rules of their game, using their measuring sticks, and following their time-tables.
Leave the counting to the bankers. They seem to invent as much funny money as they need to cover their sloppy accounting, anyway. But, as they say, capitalism succeeded because it was more exciting than everything that came before it; but now we have something more exciting than capitalism itself: its destruction.
Isn’t it about time to enjoy everything they’ve given us?