Curtain
The storm was gone, but its echoes remained. Whether her journey through Dichotomania had been a dream or reality or a restimaginary, Babe couldn’t say. What she carried felt heavier than a memory. It was the question of what it costs to belong, what it costs to stay silent and what it costs to resist.
She thought of the gagged faces, their eyes pleading while their mouths repeated borrowed lines. She thought of the train, packed with people who still managed to breathe freely, engaged with one another, before erased from sight. She thought of the diner, voices rising one moment and shattering glass the next.
And she thought of Dominatrix, strutting in his nakedness, hidden beneath his flamboyant wig, proclaiming himself tallest of all. The show was dazzling, even convincing, but beneath it lay only fear, a land destroyed by the holes he kept digging.
Babe closed her eyes. She felt again the faint glow at her fingertips, fragile but alive. Color was not something handed out by rulers, nor could it be erased by decree. It was a choice. Color lived wherever people refused the gag, wherever a child dared to smile, in a glance, in love for strangers crossing your path. It was the opposite of hate and fear. And still is, she corrected herself.
Maybe she still stands on the shore. Maybe she will never leave it. But she knows now that no world can survive on division, silence, or illusions of greatness.
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What endures are the small acts of defiance: a hand raised in greeting, a hug, a touch, a word spoken when silence is demanded… the flicker of color you leave behind for others to follow. Do not forget that. Examples are set by you and me — not in speeches, not in grand gestures, but in the moments we least expect them. The followers we might have are not ours to choose. But we can make sure the crowd we inspire is one worth walking with.
And remember this: when the right is commanded, take the left. It may not grant a happy ending — but it will be a most personal one. And that, here at the end of things, is what truly matters.
Zooming out: a gull in the sky — pining for the fjords — then gone with the wind.
…aaand, cut! Curtain! Where did that cheesy yet stupid ending come from? Who wrote it? T. Schwartz? Never heard of him. Ah — Mel Brooks, you say? Nooo, can’t be. Almost had me there. Nice try, but he’s out of our pay league. Never mind. Moving on. End credits now rolling… habba-habba, scratch that. Have we cleared all the rights? No? Impossible to keep track, you say? Figures. Probably a massive lawsuit waiting to happen if this ever sees daylight. …Hmmm… For who, I ask, would dare bear the whips and scorns of a juridical system so corrupted it sues first and thinks never? Sorry about the Shakespeare-thingy — couldn’t resist. No rhythm, no rhyme, no reason in it either. Right, nobody! Or was it left? Who cares… really? Take five, people. Or better yet: sod off, go home, mind your business, and leave mine well alone.
— — — — — — — —
I continue to release my short satirical–allegorical text about how today’s political power increasingly works through presence: Soylent Red.
You find the whole thing here: https://www.tjiso.org/
First I thought I would be dropping it one chapter a week about here at Medium, but after the Summer I speed up the process to every third day. We are now at the end, but not quite. There is always something left to discover. I hope you enjoy it.
