A Letter From The Unabomber

A Letter From The Unabomber

Detective,

You’d once questioned me on my discomfort regarding public appearances so now, as my final goodbye, I’ve decided to present to you my final, honest answer.

I dislike confrontation because people refuse to brush their teeth with the truth. I wasn’t quite as interested in the mess I’d made as the media was, and they mock me for it? Simply adding it to my case of psychosis instead of obvious exhaustion?

In strict opinion, statements speak with the same mouths that my maps possess, today our freedom is choked by wire leashes and you find yourself placing faith in the sentences of Science Fiction novels.

Fulfillment, please—goals are not desires when they are made of artificial money. So, let me ask you, when was the last time your fingers felt something organic? The primitive, Detective, has no meaning, and it’s shameful that we now look down upon where we began. Environmental purity has been forgotten, and you’ve all accepted the smog.

Let me present you with an example:

When you visit, you speak of your stress. But stress comes from knowing that you are radically congested. Seeing as I cannot seem to lie to you, I am happy with the fact that I have disrupted your agenda so if I may, allow me to revisit your routines to further prove my point.

You follow paved roads that are highlighted by buildings you cannot afford to step into and then nod while they inject you with antidepressants. You protect rights that I am proving to be wrong, stop at all the late night red lights only to question the point but never to accelerate, toss your money into man-made materials, print my words on chopped trees and then forget where your oxygen comes from! Your frustrations are drowned beneath the static of radios, and beyond that sound, what space is there to voice your complaints?

You are sad because you are alone in free thought. But I must admit, I’m glad that you have finally come to meet me where I rest with language. Romanticized speech lies beneath soot long unbothered and I do pray you can appreciate why I’ve kept these laws from you.

But don’t fret! I do believe I have found a word to soothe your nightmares.

Manipulation: you believe what you are fed, through processed packages and advertised groupings. Propaganda is sinful and that is because we are sinners who worship suited Gods, no longer the beasts that crawl on all fours and mate between the trees. There is no secret in stating that people have an obsessive desire to feel better about themselves— but I say either leave the old where it slumbers or drag it with power in your heels.

The fact of the matter is that modern man is helpless where it comes to the natural. You are terrified by what you cannot grasp with both hands, even though the hands of what we speak built the bombs you now cower from. Security has departed and believe me when I say that you may blame your activists for the abundance of political correctness. Emotions have no place in where rights stand but I guess it can be said that they don’t hold all of the fault.

No, look no further than the society you serve.

Be angry but do not fight, demands society.

Speak with diction but stay behind the fences we have forged to keep you blinded.

Humanity grew agitated and patience ran thin but aggression was not as effective as first assumed, even though we came to battle with feelings that we knew we would have to ignore when demanded. Money and status; you’re curious to why you are sad, look no further for what depresses you. You are conditioned to climb until your palms blister and told to fall only when the investment appears enough.

But the problem with this logic is that we do not understand true satisfaction. Freedom means being controlled, if they tell you to fear deterioration, go then and consume the lotions that make you fresh. Death is built into who we are but we are disgusted by simple being so we fear what we have always been because we are hunters of possessions that no longer exist.

So, Detective, my advice for when after I am gone is to individualize yourself before you are swallowed, and thank those of who placed you on the pedestal for your gallant awakening.

Thank ME, even if your praise is laced with socialized fear.

I am gone now but thankfully, I am published.

Yours Truly,

Ted Kacyzinski