The world overflows with pleasure.
More than overflowing—pleasure is the very air of this age. One cannot live
without breathing it.
And that air, transparent as it is, grips the necks of the people, governs
their breath, and lulls their thought into sleep.
Once, power bound humanity with rank, bent knees with force,
stitched souls with faith, and sealed minds with ideology.
But today is different.
The dominion of our era is soft, smooth, irresistible.
It is—pleasure.
Pleasure is stronger than chains, vaster than prisons.
For humanity willingly loops it around their own necks, choosing captivity of
their own accord.
No orders are needed, no whips required.
Only dangle the toys that glitter with sweet temptation.
Turn on the television: floods pour forth.
Alcohol, cuisine, travel, seasides, amusement parks, games, films, music,
fashion, beauty, sports, sex.
Displays of every desire line up before their eyes;
the spectators climb onto the stage, delirious in their frenzy.
And by the time they notice, their feet are sunk in bottomless mud.
There is no escape—and they do not even wish for escape.
They cease to think. They cease to doubt.
They dissolve themselves into the endless stream of images and sounds spilling
from media and social networks.
Meanwhile, the net of control seeps silently into their nerves, into the
capillaries of their blood—
and all without revealing itself as a net.
What mastery of domination!
To make prisoners unaware they are prisoners at all.
“Enjoy! Enjoy!”
That is the slogan of the age.
The fools laugh, drink, feast, and consume without end.
Friendship and love are weighed on the same scale as pleasure and money.
“To share in hardship” is a dead phrase.
Now, only “to share in ease” remains.
Say “let us share in suffering,” and you will be carted off to an asylum.
Thus human bonds are reduced to cheap currency—
measured in price tags and degrees of entertainment.
Companions are only those who laugh, play, consume together.
Brotherhoods of shared blood and sweat survive only in yellowed photographs.
But—
the mire of pleasure cannot remain full forever.
The footsteps of collapse already echo.
The mud is slowly draining away.
And when the swamp has dried, the crowd will at last feel the
weight of the collar they clasped upon their own necks.
—On that day, will they still be able to laugh?
Or will they have already forgotten how to laugh at all?
This is the English version of the article → Japanese version（日本語版）