"I WILL SPEAK OF FREEDOM", PART I

I will speak of freedom: we are so spoiled by the freedoms we have acquired that the pursuit beyond what we already have does not feel worth anymore, because what kind of freedom is left to be acquired when we have already conquered the shallower but more obvious ones we came out to look for in the first place?  Freedom of speech; freedom of organization and of publicization; general suffrage, equality afore the judicial courts, general freedom of identity and of subcultural and aesthetic expression... what is left beyond these? The slave is content with his crescent smile, for the answer is nothing! Nothing is left to fend for... but the world does not care for democracy in the long run, not on an individual level, not on a collectivist or societal one, not on a global one, and when the slave blots his neck to this world believe to be dealt the kiss of grace and mercy, the hero strikes him, slashing throat of the slave, ripping the head off its torso, and drinks the bloodpour out therefrom! The head falls to the ground with a noise. The hero puts his foot on it, and proclaims that this fool, yes, he was only the mockerer of freedom, an impostor, a believer of false truth. Man may do whatever he wants with his life, but the world does not accept the tampering with the conceptual and philosophical definition of freedom; the world will strike those who do. Promulgation of false freedom dilapidates onto itself like a New York tower at the hands of those who seek the freedom themselves to terrorize it. Yes, the slave is dead, and the hero remarks proudly that there is freedom left to find, but it is of a kind that is not at all merciful in its every turn, not ever-joyous like some precious fucking MDMA from heaven, and it is not liberating from darkness, ever-encouraging, ever-benevolent... No, rather what is left for us to acquire is the freedom which harrows every mind believing to truly possess it, and that is the freedom of personal authenticity; not a legislative freedom as to control the collective but as a subjective freedom and a call to personal heroism. Our freedoms have gotten so luxurious that we recurringly drown in them, and we recurringly fail to appreciate the murkiness out of which they grow; we can not recognize the origin of our own luxury, we can not trace back to its genesis our strong and thesean thread, for we have been so spoiled as to have become neutralized by the result of the very fight for freedom we say we fight for; the morale of the fight is waning! We have come to have it good as it already is! Not too much freedom; not too little, just comfortable, safe, stable little freedoms. We want all the cute freedoms, don't we? And when we have so acquired them, we fucking love them. It is for this reason we, as individuals and as a culture, will turn elsewhere - for the fight for freedom has already been "won"! But casual, soft freedom, as with everything holy in nature, dilapidates over itself with time. It has used ignorance itself as its scaffolding, it has not been properly comprised, and for this reason, it can not be properly maintained either; a lumberjack may not cut a tree with his bare hands, being anxious to use the axe in fear of striking himself! An individual, or a culture by the same token, may not grow into freedom only with the festivals of rejoice and the dance of celebration as its only criteria of inauguration, but indeed must take in account too the forces of destruction wishing to strike terror to all the laughters of this glorious investiture - with bombs, with guns, with mockeries, and with public and striking agitation! The wolves in the hinterland are always ravenous for meat they have killed themselves; the darkness swirling in the farthest expanses of freedom likewise leer with predation - always, and when the time is right, the time is right.