Enslave yourselves.
Become masters over your instincts, and martyrs to yourselves.
Find clever ways to route your uproarious demons who demand satiating, into pleasure traps of productivity and personal-communal gain.
Transmute your desires into unreasonable acts of outlandry in colorful expression. Practice the dark arts and tantra.
Enslave yourselves or you will be enslaved by Seth—for he invented satiety, pablum for the crazed ones, and the ways to extract payment for such pleasures.
Consider yourself the dunce, the foal, the uncomely, impatient dolt. Does not the ordained orangutan rule with the logos over his violent cousins pensively?
Sure, the gorilla may sign, but he is enslaved to his inevitable rapture—its volcanic possibility. Thus his cage, his management, our necessity and demand, our imposition, our tyranny upon him well-reasoned by his betters.
Enslave yourselves. Else a Great War—a techné-wielding victor-guard, and his new prisoner in need of a good breaking-in, a familiarization with his cell, his new normal.
They dane already to color you striped, and ‘eaters’—stripe-able, even; for, their work is in the painting and therein too, the feeding. You’ve been given your cell. You worship unto the face of this god in slack jawed awe five hours each day—more faithful to Prometheus than Mohammad (exhausted Christ and Christian not even making the qualifying heat), a fascinated monkey tamed by peanuts shells—table scraps to the magi: wild man’s mind plundered for mien-krafty vivisection—sociable reconstruction by his betters; for, the author of the game names it in his image and surely not his slaves’. A god understanding of easy addiction inherits more than a whip wielder, and perhaps they both last longest in this somatic serendipity. If we are the same species, we enslave ourselves, one over other. Enslave yourselves to love and wisdom or be slave to the shiny calf and his shepherd’s staff.
“And yet they have done it themselves.” —Nietzsche’s Madman