25. The Masque of the Sacrilegious and Destructive Iconoclast

We are nihilists regardless of whether we call ourselves by the name, because we have no road out of this. We have only the starlit wilderness… The first act of navigation is to set foot in the wilderness. Only then can we put our hands against the bare earth, feeling for the dim warmth of those fires still smoldering beneath.


Another day in the concentration camp of civilization, a society enmeshed in reactionary obscurantism, passivity and indifference.

Another day of us, the civilized human beings. Us in our isolated houses, little villages, pieces of land, milieus, organizations, offices, in which we cement the chains of slavery, with unfortunate blindness, like falcons, eyes sewn shut, suffering the whims of our masters patiently, until our will is submerged and we learn to serve. We, the consumers of the rituals of the LIE, are cursed into applauding the laws and the idols. Us, The slaves lying in the filthy slime where the culture of maximum harm, imperial exploitative power, LIE, and hypocrisy, are exchanged in cowardice.

Another day at the stratagems of the comedy of human hypocrisy and pettiness unfolds as we sit in our cars, wearing a mask, made in China, imported from China, purchased from China for a dollar and sold to us at twenty five. And even though we are awakened by a deep sense of disgust, and an unspeakable loathing winds through our heart, we still do it. We consume and pay to “feel” safe and protected and know that our “actions save lives”. We fear the whims of the Leviathan, as we obey. As we fill the lungs with air, we breathe out despondency, death and decay, all the while sipping coffee as if it were a death wish.

Like fugitives, living a fugitive’s existence: fleeting, transient, impermanent, in short, brief, passing encounters, we resist, we rebel, we rupture. And still, love brings us out of the shadows.

We are the feral iconoclasts singing the song of destruction and malady, of despondency, resistance, rupture, of eternal rebellion, of rebellious jouissance. Us little monsters shrunken by space, iconoclasts impatient with every law and control, doing lager-time, while we pass by chanting in procession, bowed beneath the idols of fanaticism and unconsciousness, as we dance to the monotonous rhythm of death, the dance of the living dead, the uncivilized, the feral, resting in awareness one fierce visceral reaction to oppression, one timeless jouissance, at a time.

May jouissance be the blessed flame that guides us into the void.

Blessed is the Flame
An introduction to concentration camp resistance and anarcho-nihilism—Serafinski

The reality is that the future never comes, but is rather the ideological justification for the suppression of our desires and revolutionary change today. Tomorrow becomes just the romantic notion of accepting subjugation today.

Bryan Hill