Dream of an illegal life in the depths of the forest.

 I always dreamed of escaping civilization. I could have been born as the child of an anarchist family living an illegal life in the depths of the forest. I would not necessarily go to school, nor be conscripted against my will, nor get lost in the unending “life rush,” that is, the oppression of society. To imagine this pleasant possibility causes me to despise every person who lives among people, because their development of character and worldview has occurred within this narrow social fantasy and in accordance with it. Because I know: “There is another kind of life, or there could be. So different that none of them can even imagine it.” While this dream stands before my eyes as forever unreachable, how do I endure this nightmare? By knowing this: if my life had been otherwise, I too would be otherwise, and therefore would not be this person now, and perhaps would not even be writing these words. What makes my current life—if I can call it “mine”—endurable, despite being rather boring and stifling, is precisely this love—or tolerance—of fate.