Death Of Anarcho-primitivist

She went in the car.

Before she left, and with no hint of irony, I asked, "you going in the car to the recycling?"

"Yep. Be a lot quicker." She replied, absolutely no acknowledgment upon her face, whatsoever, of the contradiction and total hypocrisy of travelling to the supermarket car park recycling facility in a fossil fuel engined machine.

I sat in front of the computer and cried. My tears seemed thick and heavy. The laptop was my fireplace, if my flat was my cave. It felt right to be sad.

I had everything I needed. For me, the hunt was over. I had a cave, with food and a fire place. I had a woman companion, warmth, clothing and cash available. Part-time job, hobbies and interests. I had it all.

I sobbed.

The world is fucked, I reminded myself, as I stared into the fireplace and clicked on any embers that appeared to offer links to the world I wanted to be part of.

It was the UN COP-15 2009, Copenhagen. Politicians bullshitted each other, the press got hard-ons and pert nipples over anything related to poor countries being bullied by rich ones over an argument favouring 350ppm.

At the same time, my anarchic comrades on the streets were being oppressed and unheard, as usual.

Throwing a brick through a McDonalds window no longer meant that we were angry and something needed to change, like it did ten years ago, or ten years before that.

Instead it was an invitation to pointless debate with ex-CND, ANL, SWP arm chair idealists, hopeless pacifists on undernourishing academic diets, trendy-bendy student petition signers and right-wingers. With these people would be argued the pros and cons of getting off ones arse and doing something to liberate ones community from "the system", or lying down, albeit in sectarian beds, and taking it.

Weeks ago, the rage had left me. The anger had, too.

All that was left in me was despair, a cruel and crippling turmoil, that made everything,even the smallest tasks like brushing my teeth or answering the door, hopelessly crushing for my mind and emotions. My ability to function comfortably had ceased to operate.

I smoked a bong, still with tears in my eyes, and grabbed my cross bow from under the kitchen sink.

I didn't feel a shred of guilt for my partner at the thought of her coming back from the recycling and seeing me with a sharpened bolt through my head.

I felt despair for the world, at finding no cure.

Then I aimed and fired.
My vision became dark and void.
My brain was dead.
My heart stopped shortly after.