A thought came to me this morning. It went something like, “Why am I letting this historically awful set of circumstances bombarding our everyday lives derail me to the point of taking away what used to be one of my greatest pleasures?”
Why can I not write? If there were ever a gold mine of things going on to inspire an arm-chair political opinion writer, this should be it. Shouldn’t it? What happened to the indignant fire that used to course through my veins?
I’ve come up with a theory...
Back in the infancy of social media, I was a voice in a crowd. Small, faint…but audible. I commanded the attention of maybe two dozen other people who would comment and engage, approve or argue. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough for someone whose voice had echoed around only in her own head for the first 48 years of her life.
A couple of decades later, I’m not even a voice. I’m a mouse scratching at the door of a coliseum overflowing with screaming, crying, roaring voices…all talking at once, so loud and so incessantly that no one really hears or understands any of them.
Without my little audience, I feel like Puff the Magic Dragon.
“One gray night it happened Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff the Magic Dragon Sadly ceased his fearless roar
His head was bent in sorrow,
green scales fell like rain…
So Puff, that mighty dragon, sadly slipped into his cave…”
I need to do something about this.
RE your comment. He probably won't. This man mortally fears being seen as a failure, being seen as weak. He primed them with four years of lies. Invited them to DC to stop the steal and take the country back. Primed them, aimed them, sent them out and they FAILED (sorry for shouting). Yeah, they'll come back. In a way he won, the capital is an armed camp; will be for the forseeable future. But, the main mission failed. The count went on. All the votes were certified. Mike Pence survived. But the insurrection failed. I don't expect Dear Leader wanna be to issue any pardons to failed revolutionaries.
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