Join the new world

After the ribald hilarity of my last report, I thought I'd get a little more faux-serious this time...



WHAT TO THE PROLE IS eREPUBLIK?

Fellow inmates, dear conrads, esteemed fiends, bro's, co-conspirators and assorted riff-raff: she who could address this player-crew without a qualing sensation, has stronger nerves than I. I do not remember ever to have had a greater distrust of my bolo-bolo-oratorical abilities than I do this day.

A feeling has crept over me, quite unfavorable to the exercise of my limited powers of speechifying. So much study needed, so little time. Bah. Please don't pity me. Cast aside any consideration of my apology. My wee experiences in addressing you lot avails me nothing on the present occasion. And no doubt it will show.

So I will simply bludgeon forward and hope that a gōng hé attitude alone will carry us along.



The distance between this current august platform and the poor noobie capsule from which I recently escaped during my re-entry is considerable. The difficulties to be overcome in getting from the latter standing from the former estate, were by no means slight. I had to click many buttons. Yes. And many times too. That I am here to-day, bearing the full colors of both a General-splat-splat and Staff Sergeant-splat-splat-splat is, to me, a matter of both astonishment and gratitude.

With so little experience and with even less learning, I have been able to strain my thoughts only hastily and imperfectly together, amidst numerous grunts; and trusting to your patient and generous indulgence, I will now proceed to drop them before you.



My topic is your political freedom. This is to any free citizen of the e-World what the Overpass was to PQ's friend and sometimes companion, Bill Galaxia: a respite from the turmultuous travails of being shanghai'd over and over again by space ruffians, a place under which he could, for a brief time, rest and relax and feel safe, doing his thing, you know, selling stray dogs and whatnot as the spirit moved him, free, unchained, unfettered by the slaver's whips.

We all remember the Great Deliverances: those days when our various silly e-countries were liberated from oppressive occupations. The signs, the wonders, the great acts, the glory associated with such days, are what keeps us coming back, like beaten dogs, for the endless ellipses that make up the game worl😛 pew-pews, click-clicks and splat-splats, ...

It is good that our nations here are younger than those in real life. Ten years or however long it is that this miserable excuse for a social simulation has been running seems like a good old age for an internet-based game. But real nations number their years by the thousands. According to this calculus, we are each, even now, only in the very beginning our our national curves, still lingering in the period of pre-pubescent childhood.

And I am glad this is so. There is hope in it. And hope is much needed, under the dark clouds which have lowered above the horizon.



The eye of the revolutionist is met with angry flashes, portending disastrous times. But her hearts beat lighter at the thought that the e-country is young, still in its impressible stage of existence. May one not hope that wisdom, justice and truth will yet illuminate the horizons of her destiny?

Were the e-nations truly old, the heart of the proletarian internationalist, of the global anarchist, might be sadder, and her brow heavier. When the future is shrouded in gloom, the hope of a nation's prophets walk away in sorrow. There is consolation in the thought that all e-countries are young.

Great streams are not easily turned from channels worn deep in the course of ages. But still they may rise, sometimes, imperceptibly, in a quiet and stately majesty, and inundate the lands, refreshing and fertilizing the earth with their mystery. And they may rise also in wrath and fury, and bear away, on their angry waves, the accumulated bulwark of toil and hardship and hard times.

In either case, when they rise, they tend to gradually flow back into the same old channel, and flow on as serenely as before. More frightening is, though it may not be turned aside, even after rising, is that it may simply dry up, leaving nothing behind but a withered branch, and the unsightly rock, howling in the abyss-sweeping wind, the sad take of departed glory.

As it is with rivers. So with nations.



My simple e-prayer is this: Let us speed the year of the World Wide Jubilee, when from their boring chains are set free the oppressed players vilely bending the knee and wearing the yoke of national tyrannies like penned-up brutes no more. That year will come, and freedom's reign, to every Avatar his plundered joys again restore and change into a faithful friend each foe, when none on e-earth shall exercise a lordly power, nor in a tyrant's presence shall any cower, but all to e-humanity's stature tower by equal birth alone. THAT HOUR WILL COME, to each, to all, and from this prison-house of nations, go forth a New Avatar.




======================



Until that hour arrives: Don't forget to break the rod over the head of the fash, whate'er the peril or the cost, cause it's OUR game.

All Power to the People.

Be driven by a lust for freedom.