an unsuccessful revolutionary
a memoir that isn’t mine yet (and hopefully won’t ever be) but is begging to exist
too many men in my world, here, are trapped in a power struggle.
still, they don’t seem to mind living in the unknown. I mind. I am afraid that the world is falling apart around us and we have no idea. We won’t know until it’s too late to stop anything. How can all of us just sit here and not make change when we know there is change we could make? Everything we are is a mystery, and I don’t know how much further I want to read.
I wish there was something I could say that would take me back. Before the moon. Or before the Earth. Or before me. I want to float away. I want to be able to write and write without losing control of myself. I want to be able to write without so many corrections. I want to be able to look at the people I know and be able to give them what I know just by looking at them. I just want to look at them. I want all of the information to float out of my mouth and fall into yours, so I don’t have to speak to you and tell you you’re not understanding because you will understand. I want them to understand. I don’t want to live in the world of understanding alone. It’s lonely just like every other one. I’m lonely just like everyone else.
I don’t know what I’m leaving this with. With my luck, this will be the last time I write. And I surely didn’t go out as a fighter. I wish I did. But I am no successful revolutionary. I am the one you will never quite hear about. The oceans are still dying. The people are still ill. The government is still cruel. The technology is still in our heads. The shock is still numb. And now I’m gone. And there is nothing left to give to the rebellion other than this. I wish I could give more. Pour it into their souls. I wish I could whisper into the pillow so that the whole world would hear what I’m saying, but they have already silenced me. I wish I could broadcast something to everyone. Everyone should know. Maybe somewhere in the world there is a girl who isn’t afraid to make noise. Maybe she will see it and realize that she doesn’t have anything to lose. But the flaw there is that she does. She has everything to lose. And alas, I will not be the one to take it from her for there is no possibility that she will hear me. I’m not sure anyone will hear. My words are obscured. Soon, so will I.
I am no longer running, but twitching, apologizing, apologizing, apologizing, and wishing the world will cry for help until the moment it’s gone.
the girl who made the noise