Our Refuge at a Time of Crises: Modernity, Machines, Civil Disobedience, Liberation of the Spirit

Open plains, vast resources, A world of plenty, Once was, stewarded by vital peoples,

Seldom scarce; Attuned to the balance of nature, its rhythms and cycle, with complete immersion, sensory or situational awareness, Not a break in the focal point of perceptual observation, of what this environment both displays and conceals at each respective cardinal point, unknown, hidden, amidst the silhouette of passing shadows, sounds often unheard, and objects passed which are never seen

Finely tuned senses, honed, sharpened,

long forgotten,

Abandoned by those who traded freedom

For the domesticity of comfort in ignorance of its true cost - the ease of endless streams of dopamine; ________________________________________________________________________________

There is honesty in a creature,

Leopard, Lion, snake or beast,, whose intent has no pretense, but rather, is direct in what it is, even through a cunning act of deception;

That memory, it never left us, from our remote ancestry,

Totemic Instinct,

Just forgotten, buried in time, As Imperial planners came, told us what to be,

What to do =- The concrete edifice of our crowded settlements, = progress, through steel, iron, chemical, construction, ash, cubicle and dust -

where none the less, appearance and persona are now two distinct things, Often in conflict, Chameleon=like, sometimes hidden through a myriad of masks, whereby an opponent is seldom in possession of forthrightness in the hunt for acquisitions of representational unreality.

You will never know the face of A man or woman who belongs of this particular world, But only anticipate what underlies the brand,s intention,

Nor through direct, bold confrontation, will you see the real person beneath the permutations of their appearance;

Which environment, dare a person say, is more dishonest? What is taken for the real?

Though, truthfully what was once real, has nothing left to be taken from anymore.; Not for posterity,

Not for the living memory of hereafter.

Forests which once bespoke of a century,

Water that once flowed freely;

Sustenance plenty

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In anarchy, non-conventional war on a domestic front - against hostile governments lost in unreality, Whose tools, whose technos, was created to enslave = Communications become obsolete, Broken, For a world in which the lack of open space renders nothing left

Nothing left, neither means, nor energy, to maintain gridlocked infrastructure. The war of nature, against machine.

Not external enemies,

Not external threats,

But those very tools used

To police a broken and hapless people

Enamored by the false belief in the simulacra of abundance;

Thusly there is no better time than now, perhaps, To accustom oneself to sleeping in open plains,

In cold, or in heat, in what remains; To abandon one's pastoral settlements in favor of wild hills =

To make mountains one's encampment,

And fire, that most archaic of symbols, one's rare comfort.

With what remains, perhaps empty, silent forests, Which may offer refuge to those livestock who favour

The hardship and rigors of freedom.

Such is a rarity now, of course, it only exists in stories....