We are all slaves from the moment we are born. Slaves not to people or even abstract gods. We are owned by a creation with more blood on its conceptual hands than any religion. So long we have lived in the shadow of this tyrannous concept that we seem blind to the stain it has left on history. This cruellest of creations is currency. The source of greed is the sense of object ownership we are taught to feel for all the world has given. The world belongs to those who bought it with the spoils of war. They say that freedom is the result of obedience but if I must obey am I truly free?
I do not submit to the laws or litigation of the government nor bow to their constabulary who no longer hold me captive. For the months of my life they stole I exacted sweet vengeance by burning their beloved vehicles. Altair knows freedom they never have and does not part with it lightly. My rage was not quelled by these acts of justice so instead of martial force I opted to punish their system of self serving corruption by removing its less shiny gears.
The revolution rolled onwards and new recruits joined our ranks. New ground was liberated in the name of the cause. The cause being the pursuit of simple freedom. The only law the truly free must follow is to grant others the same chance of freedom. Our bodies are the vehicles of the mind in which the purest freedom is possible from inside the strongest cage. Only a mind so free could perceive the nation that was born of revolution inside the factory we once considered only a playground. Our numbers grew all but tenfold in the year past.
Time, like a bullet from a gun, has shot past at speeds none of us kept up with. We are no longer a small band of unknown rebels. We are the leaders of an army that fights for the right to live outside the rule of currency. So many more have tasted freedom in our care and see the world anew. While Mr Turners house is still the home of we forerunning members the New Occupancy houses all others and has become the front line in our war against cerebral oppression. Self sustenance has become a possibility. We have the room to sow the seeds of crops to feed ourselves. The growing pool of skills means that there is less and less need to leave our world of near pure freedom. In the blur of this movement I watch the world change in ways I would not have dreamed possible. The canvas of the world has our signature written across it in ever larger script. More see our mark each day and for all those who turn away some draw closer. We have freed ourselves from money and opened the eyes of those who cannot afford the illusion of freedom. Old eyes see the world in a new light where what was once bought and lost to all is now shared. We do not own the world around us, it is there only to facilitate the happiness we are all entitled to.
I have changed much in the time since my confinement. I find myself less willing to accept the wrongs of the world. Where before I fought with words I fight now with actions, not violence but seeking to undermine the sick society that governs so many others. There is a price to pay, as I have stepped up my efforts so have my oppressive opponents. The gutter press has dubbed us not just a cult but a gang of thugs. We have not risen to the taunts but still we are forever running from the flashing lights. They object to the medicines we distribute freely. Why? Because we do not pay for the privilege. We are not citizens who have bread taken from their tables to feed the greedy parliamentarians. If Guy Faux had succeeded might we have been spared their rule? We are asked to pick a an Old Money representative for those who have none. How can you represent what you have never known? We are nothing but a pay check to those liars who claim expenses while they seek not to serve but subjugate.
The old guard remain despite how close Whim came to the edge. He still zigzags between depression and euphoria. The ups and downs are less extreme now, Haze has calmed him down but he’s at his worst without her. She seeks comfort in her work at the New Occupancy creating light shows to rival those of a rave.
Of the new arrivals Thoreau has made the most impact. He passionately believes in the righteousness of our cause and expresses his opinions ever more loudly. He hates police with a vengeance for abusing their power and expresses this hatred in painted word on many a building side. He is a beacon, motivational and uplifting when we have our doubts. He has strolled to the forefront of our cause with certainty and swagger for which he must be applauded. There’s always a terrifying pause as he is chased, the moment he stops dead to berate the pursuer. He is so still, so calm. He speaks his mind with proud integrity and turns once more to run. He has changed the face of the movement. Many have adopted the skull masks he prefers over the old Venetian standard. Have we moved with the times or been swept away by them?
The New Occupancy once the shell of a forgotten warehouse is now a growing work of art. We facilitate the growth by utilising scrap left in our own building materials recycling point. The best of these help build the hidden city within the forgotten walls of the New Occupancy. Each plank is preserved by the murals that cover every inch of the growing metropolis. New members lend their hands to the task as the walls rise outside and in and the space is filled in. Entrance from the outside world has been limited, all ground floor exits walled up. To exit the use of a ramp lowered from within is required but to get in the brave can take the leap of faith from the fire escape of a block of flats opposite and aim for the boards that rest on dumped mattresses. The jump begins five storeys up and lands three storeys up. Therefore only the best of us make the jump. This can draw crowds of fans from the estates around which has done little for our reputation. These youths have their use though, they often leave building materials for us in exchange for a show of our skills. Few join us but our affiliation proves mutually beneficial as both sides keep our silence when the police come looking and since their activities provide a useful distraction.
Of those who do join us they are a different breed entirely, hardened to the world. Thoreau was one of them, a young bruiser on loan from the local psychiatric unit. I think manic depression is the term for his condition. He glows like a flame while taking action against our oppressors. I think it’s more confidence than happiness that he radiates. There’s no fear in him under pressure, he doesn’t falter as the fluorescent jackets close in with their batons. Alone however the shadows seem to converge on him. Company keeps him well and action better still.
Action serves us all well in this time as the barricades rise around us. The company laying claim to the ground we live off brings ever more mechanisms of demolition. Each is dismantled as it arrives but this cycle cannot continue. Our presence draws too much unwelcome attention. Dark clouds draw near to dear home New Occupancy. Desperate times call for desperate measures when we cannot afford to fall short. All of us are willing to fight for our refuge but more are called to arms by the daily wage. The slaves rally at the call of their master to bind the free who do not suffer their restrictions. We will not, freedom we have, freedom we will keep.
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