A Letter to a Legend...

Dear Money…

What happened to you? You used to be such a sweet creature. Once upon a time you were beautiful. What happened to you?

What stripped your dignity, what put those scars on your soul? What happened? Why did you go pro, why did you prostitute your beauty selling your ass to the highest bidder as a stage for manufactured dreams that can never come true?

Ah, but of course. It happened when the humans started mistaking you for the dress you wore. You've worn a lot of different dresses over the years. It was never really you, not really, it was always the dress they craved: that totem, that symbolism of competence and responsibility. You were just the courier, the carrier, for what that dress meant to them.

You'd take them somewhere private and trade clothes with them. They'd leave wearing your dress for all their world to see while you'd slip away wearing the ethics and hard work they'd worn in. You knew far better than they how long that dress would last if it didn't really fit them, you knew how quickly the façade would fail and leave them naked if it didn't fit. It was their choice to wear your dress just like it was your choice to leave wearing the values they'd worn in that would become the fabric of your next dress.

But then they got wise, cynical, and they raped you one night. They were brutal to you, it isn't hard to see that. There was more than one of them on you, your innocence wasn't sacrificed on just one alter. No, there were several, and they took turns. How do I know there were several of them? I know because the dress you wore that night vanished, it wasn't seen the day after. It didn't really fit any of them, and it most certainly couldn't fit all of them at the same time. The only answer that fits the facts is that you were the victim of a gang bang.

What gang? I don't know, not exactly. I could guess, I'd probably get most of them, but I don't know for sure. So until I'm sure I won't name any names. I'm sure soon enough there will be others who could make lists of the legions they'd like to see convicted of raping you, but I won't be among that number.

No, they raped you sweetheart. They left you battered and bleeding, naked and cold. No one championed your cause, there was no investigation, no arrests, no trial, no convictions. In the destitute bitterness of the decades waiting for a justice never to be yours you began to study them, the one's who had raped you. You sold yourself to them, their perverted appetites were your only chance to be close enough to understand them. To understand them, and understand how to empower justice to fall upon them without the support of the societies and governments, the cultures and religions, where justice had been miscarried in the first place.

You see Satoshi Nakamoto, I know you. I don't know your face, or what your mother called you when you'd been up to mischief, I don't know if you wear one human body or if your life is hosted on a dozen. But those things don't matter because I know you. I see how you've arranged for justice, sewing the most gorgeous dress of them all, the one you call Bitcoin that hangs sparkling just beyond the reach of their full understanding.

I see, just like you do, what they'll do to each other to have that last dress. In the end what they'll do to each other to have that dress will be a hundred, a thousand times more brutal to they and everyone in their culture than what they did to you that one dark night.

You will have justice Satoshi, you will. You understand them at levels they don't understand themselves. But then that's always been the prostitute's advantage over her johns, that understanding.  She knows what they can't admit to anyone, not even themselves. You will have your justice.

In the end, when they and all those like them have bludgeoned each other destitute, body and soul, it is then I hope you'll find it in your heart to use what you know to explain to them how it happened, why it happened, and how to keep it from happening again. Somehow I think you probably understand those things better than anyone. After all, it was your dress in the first place.

Satoshi, I hope you find your peace and your beauty be restored as you heal.

Yours truly,

the philosopher

Cyranos DeMet