Free Money Manifesto

The sky fell a long time ago. It's a long time since the night possessed us and we are the night. I see the neighbour's light on and I will never know who he is. Criticism of work has always been the crux of all politics that considers itself subversive. Criticism was always made from some place: another form of social organisation, some other lifestyle... Now the place has abandoned us. In fact, many have abandoned us. Only hope wanted to remain with us. We had to kill it. We then felt lighter and could begin our flight. A direct flight towards a watery horizon. And a fiery horizon. Fire and water to destroy this world. In truth, this world only deserves to be destroyed so that I can live my desire to live which is our desire to live. Nocturnal politics is not a ray of light in the darkness: it is a snake lying in wait. Ready for attack because it has never for a single moment stopped attacking. You, for example. Your securities which are the oxygen in the blood that pumps your heart. Your truths which are paper boats sailing in your head always on the verge of sinking. Your loves which are no more than the ridiculous snapshot of a sunset. Nocturnal politics promises nothing that you do not already know. No, we will not die of life. Our life is an adventure in a theme park. We know when it began and we know perfectly well how it ends. In this world the only adventure is to make a challenge of our desire to live. And destroy this world. A world that has not given credit to any tears. Because the truth is too disgusting. Under its armpits a neverending housing development has gone up that throws a river of stinking perspiration into the sea. Between its legs a fierce war is being fought that is never over: everyone against everyone. Meanwhile, on high, God is laughing and, from time to time, He reaches out and pushes someone. Down. Until he is buried in his own daily poverty and can breathe no more. The rotting corpses are left out in the sun and they are full of flies. In the arsehole of hell where no-one can get out of their stupor, we work in fluorescent light. We live dying throughout a day that has no end. We rehearse death. It?s been ages since we felt the damp air that stirs the branches of a flowering almond tree. There is no outdoors. Only this obscene reality that cannot hide anything. We are shadows devoured by fear wandering in search of a friend. Fear is the message. Reality is obscene because it never stops eating up money. We insert coins in its vagina to buy some peace of mind for the future. We have difficulty admitting there is no future. Reality shits money, and we come running for the crumbs. When will we have the guts to spit out its own wretchedness?

The economy is a large casino
where the roulette decides, minute by minute, the price of life
And every day I postpone my death
while the Nasdaq goes down.
The lift also goes down.
If only I could reach the bottom some day!
 
  Freedom is a prison on the sea shore.
 
 
If everything ties me up
if the door that opens does not lead Outdoors
if my dreams are endless nightmares
if the only window I have is the television. Why have I been able?
Where did I get the strength to think of it?
Free money.

Money is a code: to have money/not to have money. This difference is what operates the repetition machine we call reality. Nothing escapes that difference, everything leads back to it... and that is how monetary order is (re)produced, i.e., order. And nothing happens. Nothing ever happens. The violence of currency excludes and demands work. Free money, on the other hand, blocks this code and attacks reality. Free money is a living currency. A currency because it is the result of a strange exchange: expropriation of goods, deviation from the logic of capital... Living because the very way in which it is given to us makes it a victory against fear and loneliness. As it is a living currency, free money never yields to the code. That is why free money is never requested, it is imposed. More precisely: we give ourselves free money. And we can always do that, even if we are prisoners of ourselves. Even if we can't explain it very well. Wanting it is all that counts. The moment I want to give you is a transparent stone made of light which, when you throw it into the lake, will make no sound. But that moment does not exist. I can only give you free money. My dearest, take my hand. The experience of free money hurts. What real experience does not hurt? Living currency gets etched on our bodies but it makes us braver. And freer too. It vomits the being we are. I would rather not move away. Let's flee where I can finally look you in the eye. Let?s not leave anything behind, just that life of ours that is incapable of following us. The stone wounded by the cold will not say the answer. Money reeks of death, and because it is a dead thing, it can accumulate. Free money frees us from money. The sky has fallen and gets entangled in my legs to prevent me from walking. If reality has gone mad we must invent delirious concepts. Free money doesn't belong to us: it belongs to everyone and, at the same time, to no-one.

It is a cry of disgust at the world.
It is a war cry against this world.
It is the cry of the desire to live.