You are defined by assorted scraps of paper.
Your life spent chasing after rectangular pieces dyed green and pink. Pieces with profiles of dead presidents and round, even numbers. Pieces that buy those few things we need, and those useless hordes we want.
You spend years studying books about subjects obscure and irrelevant to earn a piece of paper which pretends to guage your worth.
Our existence is verified by a certificate with a state seal affixed.
You are a nine digit number stored on a soft, blue paper.
You can do what your papers let you.Want to start a business, got a permit? Want to feed the poor, got a certified kitchen? Want to teach, got a certification? Want to marry the one you love? You’ll need another piece of paper.
You want to do anything at all? Somewhere, somehow, we’ve got a piece of paper, voted on, passed, and signed which tells you just how to do that.
Paper: here, there, hidden in obscure bureaucratic filing cabinets, scattered in corporate offices, filed away in government offices, lost in huge heaps. Paper. It is who you are.
But it shouldn’t be.
Paper is trash. Passing. Rubbish.
Start a revolution. Live simply, give away the green. Learn something, through away the diploma. Love someone, burn the state-certified love. Feed the poor with your own hands, defy the red tape. Ignore the useless rules.
Live out the anarchy of love.