Everyone looks to me to be the voice of hope, or positivity, of solutions and action or at least inspiring words while we figure out what action to take.
It’s a heavy weight.
I’m struggling to stay positive, you know. Just because it comes naturally to me to be optimistic doesn’t mean that I have to fight to keep that mindset when the world is falling apart. [being systematically disassembled, whatever]
I’m tired, so fucking tired. Chronic illness makes me tired, late-stage capitalism combined with an active coup is terrifying and also exhausting because that’s part of the plan, right? And everyone I love, and me too? We’re the ones most in danger. All my people are the types hated by this regime. Too poor, too queer, too neurodivergent, too disabled, the wrong skin color, the wrong background. We have no value that can be extracted as far as they’re concerned.
Together, we have power. They know that. They want us exhausted so that we forget it. That’s all part of the plan.
I’m turning my hope into a weapon of resistance. I’m funneling all my anger and fear into powering my hope, protecting it and projecting it forth to infect others. Maybe this regime will kill me. But I’m not going out without a fight, and my fight is hope-driven.
“She claims she’s found a way to make her own light
All you do is smile, you banish the night
She says she’s burning with optimism’s flames, away away”
– XTC, Burning With Optimism’s Flames
