A Christmas Fable
Utopia is not a place, nor a way of living, but a collection of forces, forever shifting, forever realigning. The customs of Utopia are never settled, but are always being created, embraced and discarded; the citizens of Utopia do not put stock in such things. Utopia is without crime, without want. Nothing is owned, except as it is used, nothing is hoarded or wasted; sex is broken free of possession, and can neither be taken nor forced. Utopians are casually promiscuous, casually loyal, casually faithful, as they are casual and easy in all things. They live communally, eat communally, talk and perform communally, with a fierce egalitarianism that is both unstructured and absolute.
It may come to pass that someone must be exiled from the community, driven out into the darkness where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. These things happen; Utopia is, of course, not perfect. Nor tries to be; perfection is stasis, and Utopia is dynamic. Though without walls or doors, Utopia is the labyrinth come again, a perfect map of itself, with endless choice and no branchings of the way. It is impossible to act against Utopia, because all is permitted within Utopia; what is not permitted is impossible, either to conceive of or to do. In the same way it is impossible to lose one’s way in the labyrinth, or to act against it, to engage with Utopia is to become Utopia.
All-encompassing, all-accepting, ever-learning, ever-changing. A thousand thousand tongues are spoken there, and none.