The Philosopher Between the Capitalist and the Communist
Chapter 26 : The Path to Metropolis
Someplace, far up in the skies, and far away from all of these problems of humanity, a star is being born. But it's not being born in seconds, or minutes, or hours, or days. It's being born over the course of millions of years, all of that primordial substance mixing together to form something that can sustain a planetary system and maybe even life. The atoms and molecules gather and fuse and compress in ways that not a single human being can truly and completely understand. This goes on and on endlessly, no matter how the wind blows on the planet Earth, no matter which course of direction the politics, no matter what civilization is born or what society is destroyed. You can always look up and see it, even if the only thing you want to do when in your public community is look down and see nothing. On Earth, millions could be executed or saved from the perils of execution in a single second -- the stars don't care. They don't flicker more or less, they don't shine brighter or dimmer, they don't lose their hydrogen-based core more or less because of what happens here. You can always look up, and remember, everything still goes on, everything still exists, no matter what happens here now, no matter what happens here today.
If you were to watch from a great height over a long enough time, the Philosopher's journey from Athens to Anarchia looked like a series of long hikes interrupted by small breaks of smoke plumes gracefully breaking through the canopy tops and making their way to the edges of the atmosphere. He knew that his own journey was important, but he also knew that he needed to take care of himself, with enough rest and sleep and emotional release as one's spirit demands, otherwise his delivery of Philosophy would be considered defunct upon arrival. The necessary stops were made at nearby villages to replenish food and other supplies, each time he would get more news and gossip about Anarchia, and the closer he came within the bounds of that territory, the more accurate the news became. He heard less and less about the public orgies, the mass executions of property-owners and loyalists, and the imprisonment and brutality exposed to those who disagreed, and heard more and more about the open-air, never-ending 'market-parliament' and the worker-managed, ownerless factories. But, he knew he was struggling against that limitation of time, only so that he could struggle against that limitation of human society.
There was always still the sky, where people could lose their thoughts and imagine that they might fly. It still had its golden hews in the morning, its light blue in the afternoon, and its sparkling dots at night. There was still something that people could focus their imagination on, there was still something people could based their inspirations on. You could still stare at oaks until you saw geometric patterns and you could still count pebbles on the beaches. There are still feathers that drift to Earth, cool breezes across the hottest parts of the planet, and cyclical rain activity anywhere you can find life. There are still surprises, discoveries, moments of mercy, acts of kindness, love of families, and the bonds of community. Wood from other continents was still drifting upon our shores and masses of air vapor still moved out with the changing of the tides. On his way to Anarchia, a lot of things remained the same to the Philosopher since his early years. Except, there was still Communism and Capitalism.