I. The dream
I had a dream where anarchism had the appearance of a human being.
Yes, it was precisely like a normal person with a head, legs, arms… All that is needed.
In the dream that I had anarchism died.
Suddenly, an accursed silent illness took hold of him, without symptoms. One day it knocked on his door and took him away.
Just like that.
Without time to act, understand, try…
No call beforehand.
Death did its job, turned around, and kept going down its path.
Not even a word, a gesture, a glance weighed with meaning.
II. Waking up.
Upon waking up, I realized it was a dream and I began to think.
Strange connections, reflections, cerebral impulses…
And afterwards I laughed.
My laughter became uncontainable, profound, full. Almost inconvenient.
It was a laughter so strong that tears filled my eyes and my sides moved.
You will ask why this reaction. That’s understandable.
Well, in my dream, Death treated anarchism (with the appropriate small “a”), exactly like all things and people.
Death acted and afterward continued to carry out its affairs.
Without conceding any privileges.
And while anarchism was dying without a burial, it continued the effort concerning its why and its debates, the comparisons, the propositions, morality, objective, resources, times, the interminable assembly, forms, and the whole catalogue of idiocies that, effectively, were not anything more than the same disease that was killing it.
Indignant, anarchism asked for solidarity from all places.
Anarchism, unsettled, was not able to resign itself: it was dying without anyone telling it, not even a sign or an indication, nothing.
And all the while all of this occurred. And no one cared.
Or better put, no one was interested.
So many years of history, so many battles, an honorable militancy on the global scene only to die under such banal circumstances, in the midst of general indifference.
And this guy who in my dream represented anarchism, he was livid.
And you won’t believe why.
In that extreme moment he had to get livid due to his unforeseen disappearance, for the manner in which his death was manifested: nothing epic, nothing heroic, no police frame-up or life sentence, nothing- or why no one was noticing its death.
Anarchism was dying anonymously, angry, amidst general indifference.
In these times, to dream with the anarchism, truly one has to overdo it at the bar or have ingested some natural or synthetic herb.
In any case when the mind has been freed and savagely separates itself from the civilizing control of reason, this makes the masks fall away and reveals, behind the dreams, the more inconfessable realities.
Friends, anarchy has died.
In general indifference.
It died from an excess of morality.
I know this now, it makes one laugh to the point of tears.
No one misses it.
Prowling Port Monkeys (ITS-Chile)