Of saints in the pustulence of nationalism: Postcolonialism defined

And yet, when we look at the social structures of these human beings, this species which has evolved love, which has evolved kindness, which has evolved pity, what do we see?

We see that these saints have managed to somehow organize each other into these vast, brutal, dreary, and competitive farms, to each of which we have given the name of nation, homeland, motherland, fatherland; to which, teary-eyed, without irony, we pledge our lives and allegiances, teaching our children to believe in their superiority over those other children born on the other side of the all-too-literal fence; to which, in all seriousness, we dedicate songs and poems; for which, and for the self-appointed owners of which, we kill and abuse and rape and torture and, most of all, every day of our lives, work.

We see that, in each of these nations, these farms, indeed often traveling between them, there is a tiny minority, characterized by their guilt, fear, greed, insecurity, arrogance, and hypocrisy, holding such power over their vast, helpless, mindless human herds that they quite simply have no idea what to do with it, except to use their power to protect their position, to gain even more power, in a self-inflating cycle until, in a grimly unpredictable rattling rhythm of a few years, decades, or centuries, each nation-farm-empire bubble bloodily bursts of its own self-inflated and heartless pustulence, as the farmer’s fences come down and the new farmer moves in.

Ah, humanity! The Owner is dead; long live the Owner. Today, together, without boundaries, let us piss on his future grave. This, as I understand it, as I use it, is the meaning of the word “postcolonial”.