Kontakt est un journal libre et gratuit dont la motivation principale est d'offrir un espace d'expression libre et de créer une zone de contact possible entre une personnalité invitée et le lecteur. Kontakt est une plateforme, un support pour y diffuser des idées, des textes, des images... Chaque numéro est entièrement réalisé par un invité différent, qui est alors libre de répondre à l’invitation comme il le souhaite. Basé sur un principe de copyleft, Kontakt peut être photocopié et distribué par qui le souhaite.invité : Preach R Sun contact : journal.kontakt@gmail.com

KO

NT

AK

T#18

Dear Slaves,

And so, here we are, yet again, with another sad story. So, what do we make of these crimes? What, are we supposed to tell the babies? Are we not to believe this is all deliberate? Just another elaborate ploy to eradicate us. Let the devil tell it. It’s all in our heads. Such thoughts are the figments of (delusional and paranoid) schizophrenic minds. You know, the kind that claim to see 300-year-old ghost. Let the devil tell it. We (not he) are the true evil. Yes, it all boils down to our anger and not his quotidian acts of persecution. We are pilloried for playing the race card in this game of race he invented. Let the devil tell it. We’re always singing the same old slave hymn. Yet, try all we may to sing a new song. In the end we keep hearing that same old tune. Let the devil tell it. We refuse to let go of the past. Yet, the past won’t leave us be. In fact, every time we try and move on it just keeps hunting us down. Let the devil tell it. It’s all in our heads…

So I say, FUCK IT! Perhaps it’s time we stop looking for an escape route. Time we stop running. Perhaps it’s time we allow ourselves to see this shit for what it TRULY is. Time we allow ourselves to feel the pain… for real. Yeah. Maybe it’s time for us to sit right here in the fucking muck and bathe in this insanity. Let the despair rush in. Let it seep into all our pores and inundate our soul. Perhaps it’s time we remove the surgical mask and smell the inexorable stench of this, 300-year-old, still rotting, corpse. Let the sick infect us. Inhale deep and let the noxious fumes raid and despoil our nasal passages. Let it permeate and poison our lungs. Take the pain in our mouths. Savor the foul putrid taste of coagulated death, oppression and suffering. Let it overwhelm our senses and curdle in our stomachs to the point – inducing nausea and apoplexy – we’re forced to (uncontrollably) vomit up pure rage and, hate-fueled, gall. Perhaps it’s time we give voice to our rabid madness. Free that savage we keep locked away in the dungeons of our shame. Release these, sanguinary, hell hounds we’ve been painstakingly suppressing for oh so long. Let them run free. Let them wreak havoc and exact – BURN THIS BITCH DOWN – vengeance. After-all, what’s the worst that could happen? We could lose our humanity? Our lives? Our sanity? Well guess what? To them we’re not human. To them we’ll never be anything more than savages. And our sanity is just an illusion, because they control our reality. Therefore (NIGGER) you’re already dead.

Sincerely,

The Fugitive