Someone, not too long ago, told me the paradox of freedom, that freedom holds no value without confinement. The state of complete and utter freedom leaves no incentive to be creative or to try and escape. There is no motivation to be free if it is handed to you. There is no encouragement to do anything if nothing is demanded of you. If freedom is the ability to do as you will, then complete and utter freedom handed to you is of no value.
What use is freedom if that will is lost? The distinct will to do what you want when you were under pressure.
Anarchy, as I imagine it, would not be full of large men combing the streets in choppers and chains. Not full of street whores carrying syphilis. Not full of rubble and corpses.
No.
There is still oppression in that scene. For criminals to commit atrocities, someone has to suffer. For tarts to pour the pestilence of venereal diseases, someone has to suffer. A city full of rubble and corpses would be testimony to the absence of complete freedom.
No.
Anarchy, as I imagine it, would be a slow process of civilization creeping towards death. An eventual complete loss of will as people grow indolent. As if a witch cast a particularly nasty spell to put the world to sleep.
Now excuse me while I resume my nap.
