Posted 27 September 2011 - 08:20 PM
Directive A-66 / +O+
Why don't we Kill?
We don't kill because we fear the unknown - even when we have a reason to kill. Even when we understand that is what is required to keep the planets standards high, its airways clean, and its refuse to a manageable minimum. We don't kill because we have no idea how easy it is - there are so many complications that enter our mind, borne of the endless enactments of others we have witnessed and catalogued for reference.
We dare not take that leap - knowing that once the door is opened it cannot be closed. We know there is no coming back. But what if we don't want to come back. What if, we realized, this is as good as it gets? An endless coil of repetitive cycles day after day, year after year, realization after realization - coming back to the uncomfortable truth. This is as good as it gets. To be trained in school, groomed from day one to work for the machine - to adopt and aspire to the goals of the wealthy elite who frame our choices - our only recourse to sell ourselves to the highest bidder and join those in chains grinding the mill. And toward what?
They teach us Loyalty to the machine is everything. They teach us only that which feeds it, only that which nourishes and greases it. We are not taught to think, or to question why. We are told - be everything you can be - you can be anything you want to - but when we, based on our observations of what is required, what is necessary, what is right - become something other than a grinder of the machine - when we dare to step out of the light of the all-seeing eye and make our own choices- then, then we are demonized. Then, we are called criminals, eccentrics, extremists. But all we are doing is making the best choice - the choices no-one else can see, so deluged are they by the pills forced down their throat due to their lack of foresight, or beaten down by reprimand after reprimand - which as we know - suddenly changes to be all that you can be, with the proviso, for the Machine.
Hitler chose to be all that he could be. We can be sure he was encouraged to do his best, to aspire to greatness, to study and scheme for his opportunity to presence his visions, his 'career'. Germany needed strong leadership, Germany needed political stability, and Germany needed a new vision. And of volition did Hitler not stand tall among lesser men and be all he could be? Did he not answer the Question we are still asking? And when he did? He was hunted, punished, destroyed - for listening to those who work for the Machine, for taking on board the notions that he should be all he could be, for doing what was required of him, what they demanded of him from birth. There is no Loyalty to the Machine that goes unpunished.
Good people spend their lives at the coalface, giving up everything for their Masters, only to be discarded when they have served their usefulness; their life wasted furthering the pockets of the rich, the boss’s holiday by another martini. Struggling toward the dream brainwashed into us that we can be Him or Her, from birth - a dream that doesn't exist - a dream that becomes a nightmare the moment we question the Machine. Only the unfeeling killers get to the top. Those willing to do anything and fall back on the claims they were just doing their job. Drunk dry and our lifeblood usurped, we are dumped in the street when fresh blood comes coursing through the veins, naive and willing, to blindly feed the Machine with the corpses of the Loyal. It is all that awaits all of us - dreaming foolishly of an idyll of superannuation, retirement, and rest after a life well-lived - we know we are oppressed, we know we are in chains and why we daydream, why we imagine the future, why we drink our sorrows - it's all toward Escapism.
We want to escape. We spend our whole lives in the service of the Machine naively believing there is an escape. There is no escape.
This is the best we can hope for. We are trapped here. Around us fools dance and jingle their bells, grinding the mill with their solemn labour tending the gardens and neutralizing the weeds. I speak to you who are the weeds - the proud and the strong who seek only the light of the sun. Who struggle up from beneath the ground through soil and dirt and loam in the hope that there might be something worth finding on the surface and who discovered the disappointing truth of life. Those of you who did not fall prey to the wiles of the schools, and saw through the economic schemes of the Capitali and who were told to be all you can be - only to be told No when you were.
Some of us don't have all the right words, and some of us don't know the right actions - to express this truth - to express our rage, indignation and sorrow at what is occurring - all we have is a feeling. That feeling is the most precious thing you have - it is the same Silent Knowing that has driven hundreds of thousands of human beings to recognize the absurdity of their Time, the endless waste of lives and potential fulfilling the cold desire of a Machine that cares for nothing but replication of itself. Replication after replication in the name of "Progress". Look around you, are we not still the same as we have always been - trapped in a delusion like hamsters on a wheel that just so long as we keep running everything will be alright? It is of no consequence if you cannot find the words for that feeling - it is a feeling that cannot be justified and never accepted where the only Listeners are the puppets of the Machine. But you must hang onto it -it only comes to a few of us - those few who slip between the cracks and see through the lies, through the brainwashing, and the cheerful world facade that darkens when we turn of age - or those of us who never believed the ruse in the first place - who saw what was being done and that people were lining up one after the other in blind columns ready to cut open their veins and drain their lifeblood into its engine, like sheep clambering to die for the Machine.
The Machine cannot grab us all. It tries - it has every conceivable net cast to catch and mould everyone, however different - but something stronger than the Machine shares the same space. Something Older than the Machine dominated this world - something primal and chthonic, earth-bound that emanates within our every cell and tells us what we are seeing is wrong - something that wants to return, as if it remembered a time when it was, a golden age of humanity. There has never been one. This feeling does not come to all - most are indoctrinated and pressed into service readily from the beginning - their instincts suppressed by an endless soup of falsities that turns the brain to mush, yolks it, and controls it. This feeling comes to the Weeds, the organic thorns in the Machines side that find their way into any garden bed, any tended field, refusing to succumb to poison, thinning out, and any amount of scrutiny. This feeling sets off alarm bells in our head that this is not the way it should be - screams at us that the angles are wrong, the geometry flawed, the innocuous thinly veiled by the sinister. We cannot explain what it is - we are not meant to - the Machine has created the infinity of forms to cover up and disguise itself - a million x a million paths for us to travel down in our desperate search to make people see what we see - but all of them dead ends. Wasted time trying to convince those who cannot be convinced, those who are dead inside, whose only programming is to accept those fuels that feed the Machine. We are the ones who truly understand Futility - how conversation leads to more running on the treadmill, more escapism - and alerts the guardians of the Matrix to our defiance, to our existence as freed from the tyranny of Hope. We are not among the stupid. We are not among the slaves. We recognize clearly what we have been born into. And what we must do. There are No exits marked in this prison.
But we hinge. We pause. We hesitate. Because we are held back by the traces of programming that have laid their sickly roots in our heads. We think - what can I do - the problem is so big, so infinitely vast and complex - and my life so fragile and brief. It is true - our lives are fragile and brief - we only appreciate that when it is threatened - or almost taken away. This is the leverage through which the machine controls us - destroys us - by threatening to take us from the pen in which we are housed and tag us, target us, torture or terminate us. In reaction to action - it takes our lives. It locks us up - or it shuts us down. It even ignores us. For what can we do, just one more blip on a screen, one random number on a file, one tiny organism against a Leviathan thousands of years in the making.
Its defences are vast and its resources powerful - its vengeance is lasting and cruelly swift. Like an all-seeing Eagle it soars down to pluck those who dare stand tall - to smash those individuals who slip beyond its reach, beyond its re-education programs, beyond its ability to reason with them. It takes us one by one - our fragile lives - one way or the other. We die for it, or we die from it. When we are overwhelmed by its madness and the torturous regime it inflicts on others and we make too much noise in protest, when we explode in rage at the injustice of its justice, when we try to voice what is wrong - and show ourselves to be free - it pounces, tears us to shreds as an example to others, makes us fear for our lives, our safety, our fragile brief lives... It spins our efforts into its web of lies, paints us as evil, as morally corrupt, as traitors, or the mad. We are not mad. We with that feeling are the only sane ones left. That is why it hates us. That is why it seeks to destroy us. That is why it has always hated us and why it continues to scan for us and destroy us when we surface uninvited into its sterile gardens and raise a finger to the machine.
Every War begins with groundwork. It begins with someone like you, who has a feeling that something is very wrong with the world and can't place their finger on it - or who finds themselves unable to place enough fingers in the dam to stem the tide of this terrible geometry the Machine has wrought - who finds themselves overwhelmed by the enormity, who thinks themselves Alone, an isolated soul driven with a dark feeling of recognition of having somehow, somewhere, seen all of this before - and who can see through the mirage of a carefully erected, tended and varnished exterior of the world perfected in its purpose, meaning, bright hues and innocent architecture to the reality of a filthy dungeon of tangled broken lines and twisted horror - where nothing meets where it should, nothing is true, everything is permitted.
That feeling is our collective Memory. It is not your memory, or my memory, but the deep gouges and traces left by the impact of ancient onslaughts against the psyche and against the mind. It may have been enslaved two thousand years but it Remembers - it Remembers Everything. Despite the programming, despite the Machines eradications and purges - that feeling persists - a nagging sense that this is all wrong, alien, an invasion.
There was an invasion. A Mind-War which we lost. We were imprisoned. We have been here so long we’ve forgotten it ever happened, forgotten we are prisoners. We were forced to forget. Yet something in us remembers and we spend our days inside mentally escaping. Escaping into a new life, a new car, and a better me. But it’s all in our heads – we sit in our cells and use our limited freedom in vain – whatever we do, we remain imprisoned, and the Machine watches over us with a malevolent eye. It takes good and evil both in its stride, necessary outbursts that justify its existence, its dominance, its tyranny.
Nature persists in throwing up avatars of that feeling. Those who Remember. We carry within us and our brief fragile lives the renewed hopes of those who tried to escape - those who defied the jaws of the Monster destined to repeat the endless cycle of striving to destroy the Machine and were crushed beneath its merciless wheels trying to halt its progress. Life after life, broken bodies and shattered dreams piled high toward the Sun – the procession of an aeon of soldiers of That Which Defies the Machine – desperate to stop the stories in motion in their Time and change the archetypal mythos unfolding as the noxious geometry of the Machine took hold of our planet.
What did they reveal?
They peeled back the wallpaper of the Matrix to show the underlying wire frame - that it had infrastructure, layers, pipes, sewers, beneath its seamless visage. Props and mounts, supports and struts that held it in place. We, with that feeling can choose to unscrew our bolt.
They revealed that a Symbol endures and outlasts causal death, whilst the Individual does not. Endless individuals fought the Machine on its own terms only to be utterly annihilated or literally owned by it. Bought out, paid off, many like us joined the Factory Floor as overseers and supervisors - enabling the Machine to learn from all our assaults and adapt ways to insulate itself against them. But the Machine is not impenetrable. New arrivals seed new assaults.
They revealed that Frontal attacks on the machine make it stronger - it is not the limbs of the beast we must hack, but the heart. Only through the shadows of its own Forms can the Machine be caused to turn on itself and self-destruct. The deliberate misuse and bending of the Machines forms back upon themselves have a curious effect - contagion. Such acts break the hold temporarily and help others to Remember.
It can only be destroyed by using its own strength against it. The Machine exerts a Morality field that filters into everything, taking advantage of loaded emotional phrases, concepts, ideas ingrained during programming to direct its minions against themselves or external threats. The Machines strengths lie in its superior arsenal of forms and its absorption of contradiction. It divides in order to conquer. Assaults must not focus on the Machine, nor the Form - not after A and before Z - but directly in between. We must overcome our directive to protect the Machine and embrace the coils of Chaos. Spam mail - is hated, because it slows the Machine. Traffic Jams - are hated, because they slow the Machine. Queues are hated, because they slow the Machine. Plane delays are hated, because they slow the Machine. Graffiti or damage to trains is hated, because it slows the Machine. To fear being Late, Delayed, and Inconvenienced - is the unconscious programming of your directive to Love Thy Machine. All of these things interrupt the daily motions, the mechanical processes dutifully played out in monotone rhythm. All of these things cause Chaos - Chaos is the name for that which slows of the Machine - Chaos is hated, feared, forgotten, because it is the one thing that stands in the way of the cold desire of a soulless embodiment that cares for nothing but replication of itself. Replication after replication in the name of "Progress".
The building blocks, the very A-frame of reality is built upon extremely fragile supports upon which a small amount of pressure can cause them to collapse. But they are seldom leant on - because they have been forgotten - swept under the carpet of forms that thickly conceal these weaknesses. It's the little things - such as writing left to right so that you can read this page and process the information as quickly as possible in order to get on with your next task that keeps the Machine going...
Teaching others like us to Understand the Machine is why we exist. There have always been others like us. Before us. And after us.
We are the Temple of THEM.
We are going to Kill the Machine.