A winter's tale: The allegory of the house of freedom

We’ve walked along history’s road. 

We’re naked and freezing—but at least we can see with our eyes.

Then, we are blindfolded, taken to another part of the road, and given a warm coat.

Once, we had pain and knowledge. 

Now, we have pleasure and ignorance. 

Once, we were chattel slaves, and we were told as much–

Tortured but cognisant of our slavish condition.

Now, we are wage slaves, but no one calls us that–

Pleasured but ignorant of our slavish condition.

And the pain still comes when it’s least expected. The crack of the master’s whip.

And the master is not an individual, but a structure of exploitation and alienation.

A street in winter (Creative Commons)

We are pushed by a horse-drawn cart, whipped like the horses, towards a doorstep. 

We’ve been at many doorsteps before, and always the door has been shut—

Or what’s inside has been full of horrors.

We don’t know this—but, this time, we’re at freedom’s doorstep. 

Unknown to us, the road behind us has turned into a sink hole—a chasm, an abyss.

If we step away from the door, we fall into the abyss.

In that abyss, we are chained to a wall.

Chattel slaves—in even more pain than before. 

If we open the door, we enter paradise. 

We enter the house of freedom. 

Or do we?

Freedom or slavery. 

Survival or chaos. 

Socialism or serfdom. 

That is the choice. 

We must decide. 

Before history decides for us. 

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