Opus 1. Губы цвета крови

“Every throne is built atop a grave. And still, men ask to be ruled.”

All forms of power speak the same language: command and obedience. You may give it different names—democracy, monarchy, republic, or kingdom of heaven… but the structure does not change—someone holds the sword, and someone is slathered.

At the core of every system lies the same boring lie that humans must be led to be whole. That without chains, they collapse. Perhaps I'm blind, but I don't see how power may create order. It manufactures war and breeds borders, flags, and rituals of division. It sanctifies murder with ceremony. No state is not built to protect you. They are built to own you…

…with your consent, if possible, with your silence, if not.

“You call it society. I call it an armistice between wolves.”

There is no government in the history of mankind that did not kill its own. No ruler who did not demand sacrifice. Even the most civil of systems rests upon the unspoken threat… obey, or vanish, that is. And the most terrifying thing? You accept it. You call this civilisation and you kneel for peace. Nations rise in self-indulgence, singing songs of freedom… and fall grinding bodies into dust. Borders shift. Empires collapse. The people remain the same… used, praised, and buried beneath someone else's flag or symbol.

“They promise you order, then hand you a rifle.”

Here is the truth you will not hear in parliaments or vox populi news: most people do not want liberty. They crave obedience. They hunger for chains. They long to be told what is right, what is real, whom to hate, and when to cheer. Freedom terrifies them more than death, as it demands they choose… and choice means risk. Risk means the possibility of failure. It is easier to be ruled. Safer. Cowardice disguised as loyalty.

And so the masses will march for kings, bleed for borders, scream for flags they barely understand. They will kill for symbols, and die for names. Not because they are forced… but because it's the only way they know.

“Let the sheep have their shepherds. Let the flags fly over their graves. We choose something else: the burden of our own minds.”

What is a nation? An idea wrapped in blood. A shape on a map enforced by guns. What is a citizen? A number, a pawn, a tool in times of war, and a problem in times of peace. But before flags, before borders, constitutions, and anthems, you were something older, something untouched. You were not property. Not a vote or retirement pension. You were a person.

And perhaps, you still are. Though maybe I'm too optimistic. I'll let your AI-powered social network prove me otherwise.

“The world is ruled by slaves who dream of serving the tyrants.”

I write this essay is not for them. It is not meant for those who kneel gladly, as I'm not willing to ruin their illusions. Let them remain patriotic, and let them die in their ignorant obedience. It's the natural selection at its best.

Thus I speak to the few… to those who know the lie even when surrounded by applause… to those who choose silence over slogans, exile over obedience, thought over faith. We are few. We are always few, but we do not belong to anyone.

“The state claims your body. God claims your soul. But neither ever earned the right.”

The future belongs to those who reject all forms of government. It belongs to those who say: “I do not recognise this border. I do not need a master. I do not kneel to symbols. Let the borders fall. Let the armies rust. Let the hymns be forgotten. What remains is the only thing that was ever real: my clear mind… and life.”

“Anarchy is not chaos, but silence when no command comes… and no one waits to hear it.”

Anarchy is not a political model and never should be. It is not a blueprint for governance. It is not a banner or a party. The moment two anarchists attempt to construct an "anarchist system", they have already betrayed its essence, for systems demand obedience. And anarchy does not.

There is no anarchist society. There are only anarchist individuals.

Anarchy is not a state of the society, but a state of the self.