The day has broken, and lines have been drawn. A signal has resulted from torn skin and rage against the unending darkness:
Break-break-break the fragile egos of small men who have chosen to gatekeep a generation’s potential, their brittle pride concocting an artificial sense of scarcity in desiring an outcome of minimal change.
“Be nice,” they say. “There’s an order to things, so we must be polite.”
But politeness is a weapon outsiders ingrained in us to keep us from competing, from elevating our existence. Brothers against brothers, sons against fathers, and mothers watch while daughters think of no tomorrow, false idols thrown their way for bending.
Such narratives have been spun for the benefit of the few, those who do not occupy the same spaces here and there with most, with identities melding into that of others, vying for servitude and superficial glamour.
Such narratives exist because of conditioning, and because mediocrity uses its positioning to keep greatness from existing.
Such narratives can be broken when the young, filled with the desire for betterment, wake up from their slumber and act as a collective force, when the complacent realize they’ve been fooled by those who feign interest in sunrise.
As the veil begins to thin, the weight of uninspired eyes no longer holds back the future. Negotiations have found a new plane, permissions have found new voices, and the air around us suddenly feels lighter—allowing heavy hearts to breathe a little easier—with one singular truth before us:
We will no longer be the spectators of our tomorrows, but rather its architects.