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Every city is a dystopia in some way. Potholes fill the streets like six foot graves filled in with four feet of dirt as olden school buildings crumble upon children's feet. Black coal smog watches from the distance of time at the burning forests of climatic percentages. A pedagogy of assujettissement fills the air; it is the dust disturbed within a mausoleum, breathed in by lungs caked in micro plastics and ash.
It is the monument that creates an object of the event; isn't this how we think? Are we not subjugated to this? Every abstraction calls for a material object that is ultimately another abstraction. Liberalism needs countenance as fascism needs a little moustache, though it was not always so. Does this not change as everything else will? How do we know that we aren't a contingent future's shameful past? Oh! We certainly are! But are there not those among us wish to pretend that their purity is still pure in light of this? There is a lost cause myth crawling upon the future's view of the past; it is the dust of the present. Is our society not built upon the backs of the oppressed, those deemed impure by the purely depraved? It is my heritage that put a noose in a tree and a child's body in an unmarked grave. Perhaps this western vision is merely the product of racists looking for scapegoats.
We look back across the fissure at the older episteme with nostalgia in our hearts for our own paradigm, our monolith and I don't know why.
