Look, I get it. We’re here, watching charts, chasing green candles, swapping and converting coins, and for some, it feels like freedom. Maybe you’re staking like there’s no tomorrow, or maybe you’re just sitting back, bags packed after a well-timed dip buy, watching the market claw its way back. You’re not some TikTok degenerate—you’ve got a strategy. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
For Kaczynski, technology was never neutral—it was an invasive force, a sprawling system that stripped away autonomy while pretending to offer control. And crypto? He’d probably see it as the latest layer of that same trap. Blockchain may look like freedom, but it’s also a perfect method of surveillance—a ledger of every transaction, every interaction, a web spun tighter around the individual.
And don’t kid yourself—cold wallets, hot wallets, it’s all the same. Own even a fraction of a coin on a KYC-compliant exchange, and you’re not anonymous. With a single request, any government can pull your transaction history, trace your trades, and map your financial life. Privacy? It’s a bedtime story for traders. You can encrypt your keys, stash your seed phrase, boast about your security setup—but in the eyes of the state, you are already mapped, logged, and easily traced.
But it’s not all green candles and meme coins, right? We’ve got stablecoins too—the serious side of crypto, the ones that actually hold value. Or at least, they’re supposed to. For me, here in the EU, it’s USDC. That’s the safe haven. For now. Step outside the EU, and you’ve got FDUSD, USDT—those still exist. But who knows for how long? Regulations shift like tides. What’s legal today can disappear tomorrow. Even the “stable” is just another promise—one that can be revoked.
A digital dollar is still a dollar you don’t actually hold. It’s still dependent on trust—trust in an issuer, in a platform, in a network. If that network decides to freeze your funds, they can. If that issuer collapses, your “stable” value vanishes. Stability is just another story we tell ourselves.
He would see the mining farms—vast, industrial cathedrals of circuitry, where machines hum tirelessly in pursuit of cryptographic tokens—not as a marvel of decentralized finance, but as temples to a new god: the algorithm. Thousands of GPUs devouring electricity, while traders worship the next green candle, hoping for salvation in the form of a 10x pump.
Financial freedom? Sure, for a few. For the rest, it’s an addiction—staring at screens, chasing spikes, hoping for one more run. It’s the casino, minus the cocktails. Some strike it rich, most get burned, but we all keep playing, convinced that the next big win is just one trade away.
But perhaps most importantly, Kaczynski would’ve seen cryptocurrency as a distraction. For a man who believed that true freedom meant escape from the technological system, the idea of “freedom” being bought, sold, and traded as an asset would have seemed like a tragic farce. Real autonomy, he argued, could only be found away from the machine—in the forest, in simplicity, in a life untouched by the reach of the network.
And yet, here we are. Swapping and converting coins, staking tokens for that sweet APR, buying dips like a disciplined vulture, following the latest DeFi trends. Stablecoins in one tab, 100x leverage in another. We pretend it’s about financial independence, but it’s just a new game—one where even the “stable” is only as safe as the promise behind it.
For some, crypto might be an escape. For others, it’s a hall of mirrors—a place where freedom is promised, traded, and endlessly pursued, but rarely caught. A marketplace where hope is bought and sold, and where most are left chasing reflections, never grasping the real thing.
So yeah, keep trading, keep staking, keep chasing. Just know that when you open your wallet, you’re not holding freedom. You’re just playing another game, a different casino, a new kind of cage—one we chose for ourselves.
