There is no point in pretending anymore. It’s becoming too obvious. We are part of the evil empire. An empire made up of 28 shining European states, ruled by an internally nominated aristocracy in the imperial capital of Brussels.
It is the empire of the class council chairmen, the reign of the easily offended and irritated bureaucrats, those who like to wash down Champagne behind closed doors, but don’t want others to do the same. It is not a warrior nobility, a merchant aristocracy, a scientific council and certainly not a popular assembly – but the lowest form of secretarial rule. Those who sheepishly shake hands, kiss cheeks, make small talk in bureaucratic dialect and then stab in the back.
Those who hide behind paragraphs, rules and regulations, making life difficult and incomprehensible for everyone else. Those who never give up, those who prefer to force the people into more and more votes until they finally vote the right way.
It is a collection of people who are no longer guided by any ideology or principles, they do everything in their power to gain even more power. They are intoxicated by success and influence, by having an audience with the formalists’ grand masters, by walking the endless corridors of the palace, by being part of it all.
They walk without shame on the purple carpet, the colour reserved only for the Gods. They feel no shame, they feel no guilt, they have no remorse. They just follow the rules, they just do what the machinery is programmed to do. They are never wrong, and there is no one to judge them, there is no one to stop them.
They live off the labour of others, they cut thicker and thicker slices of our livelihood. They add nothing of value, they merely distribute the values of others. They create nothing, they merely modify and pervert the creations of others.
So far they have been content to be annoying, arrogant and wasteful, but now they are becoming evil.
Imagine waking up one day and realising that you live behind the walls of evil. The side that is wrong, the ones that occupy the inferior position in the history books of the future.
What could we have done differently, what could we have done to turn the icy winds of fate? Alas this regret, alas this guilt.
But when we have cried and wept long enough, when we have wiped away the shameful tears, and the red-grey eyes see clearly again, we realise that it is only ten o’clock. Twelve o’clock has not yet arrived. There are still two hours to go before the secretaries crown their bureaucratic emperor, who longs to dissolve the remains of the divided Senate and set the world on fire.
