lying awake at night

"are you ready for what's to come, now that he's dead?"

"not that he was significant to me, but the hatred he sowed will be reaped by those with the biggest political targets on their backs. his killing, a convenient justification for the elimination of dissent, will catalyze a continued onslaught against the global majority and any framework of liberation. so, no. i'm not ready."

"is that your fear doing the talking now?"

"yes, of course, what else would it be? but does that make it irrelevant to the conversation at hand?"

"your fear is rooted in your belief in the survival of you as an individual, or maybe even 'you and yours.' i know this because if it were rooted in the collective, you would fear inaction or perhaps the wrong action. you would know your survival as a part is intrinsically tied to the survival of the whole. that the work of living is not meant to be done alone, and we must consider more than ourselves. so no, it's not irrelevant; it's a necessary context for you to understand your unwillingness to meet the demands of revolution."

"what exactly might those demands be?"

"sacrifice, blood, change."

"yeah, you see, so what if i'm unwilling? those stakes are insanely high, and also i'm very tired. do you mind? i'd like to try to sleep now."

"you lose sleep because your conscience won't let you rest. you dulled your senses and values, becoming a blunted knife. once meant for the throat of your master, now impotent, your purpose has been stolen. you let them take it, and now you wrestle with the ambivalence of a life devoid of meaning. living for this length of time, even uncomfortably in the imperial core, has left you in a fog of convenience and spiritual dilapidation."

"damn, ok, tell me how you really feel."

"i will. you're a coward now. don't misunderstand, you'll fight for yourself now in ways you never would have as a kid, but you won't stick your neck out for anybody else. your advocacy was deeper, more unyielding, and positively effective as a child in high school than it is today, a thirty-five-year-old openly trans-masculine person. you used to punch a bully for a stranger when it came right down to it; now, at worst, you fawn to the everyday adult bullies we face. you placate at best. not to mention the fact that you've let your body and your mind go soft, so now you truly have no means to fight. you think this will spare you the inherent violence of politics, but it won't. palatability is a fool's errand. the court's biggest jester. you've traded your humanity for comfort and stasis. you will continue to live a meaningless, pain-filled, and fractured life. congratulations, and enjoy the illusion of choice that this facade affords you. i hope it's worth it for thirty different brands of laundry detergent."

"yeah. thanks. can you shut the fuck up, though? i'm just trying to fuckin' sleep. can't i count sheep like a sane person with a normal circadian rhythm and sleep habits? like, just once? what the fuck is wrong with me?"