(Dys)Utopian Eulogy

If you are reading this, then I guess, I am at long last dead. If you are a part of the dominion’s acolytes, guck yourself. But if you are among the living with a selfish thought in your noggin, consider me lucky, because you are still breathing air in what I can only assume is a state of direction versus independent thought. It was not always so.

When I was a lad, we used imagination and thought for ourselves to a degree. The degree to which one was allowed had very much to do with upbringing. If you were a product of religion, the rules were tighter. If your creators believed liberally, you had more breath. But all of it is in excess to the so-called “equality” of this day.

I was told to fear anarchy. But anarchy was not the true fear, it was total assimilation. This is (dys)utopia. The hordes,like lemmings, perform duty and return home to their process- they seem happy, unaware, eating at the master’s table. The fattened calf always sacrificed for their submission.

Now,only we,who live on the fringes, think beyond the hive. I look to the horizon anxious for the things to come. People, indoctrinated by false tongues, claim the things “to kome”. This all started with the uneducated typing “pwned” and claiming it as their own for the masses as “owned” with a capital emphasis. If you were here, instead of reading, I imagine that you would be asking me why I chose to live alone and in squalor if I was so enlightened.

And I ask you, how can you not see why? The state of my arrangement is the price paid for a brain unfiltered by utopia. I look down as I write. I see the legs crossed by my hands because the feeling of crossing my legs still seems real even after the infection beset upon my person. I recall touching my right foot, entwining my fingers and toes, running hand along the hair on my calf. I remember it all, but now it is just a vivid illusion, but I still have a mind capable of illusion. My imagination still thrives in your utopia.

My right leg is no more. The gangrene during the 2029 surge did its part - graphite and plastic now sit upon my left knee where equal flesh once sat unappreciably. This is the price of free thought in their (I hope to hell not in your) utopia.

Heed my words. Read them as if they are shouted amongst the people who still do not fear reciting words lacking popularity. The voice is the greatest of arrows. The mind is the greatest of weapons forged to be individual and not shell.

I gave my leg. I gave my job. I gave my belief. I gave my faith. Some would say I gave my sanity. And I gave my loved ones to the alleged peaceful balance. Many more like me gave all just to have our voice snuffed out. We, the last rebels, the last poets, the last scholars live as we do to maintain the one thing that they can not take from us - our minds, our free thought, our imagination.

If you have this letter in hand then beside you should be my bones and the heart-shaped locket once worn by my beloved. I beg that you set us free. Burn all that is left and allow the ashes still full of passionate screams for true freedom to float into the city below.

‘Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage. Rage against the dying of the light!” - DT