The weight, and the wait

I've been afraid all day. The same palpable fear and impotent rage I felt when the votes were counted (or not counted, whichever) in 2004, the sense of the inevitability of a script that I have no power to edit, nor even fast-forward. That I have to live this out, stage by excruciating stage, not knowing the details but knowing how, in general, the story will proceed.

Things are, of course, as they always were; the sins of the few are visited upon the many (slowly, drop by drop). With a whimper not a bang, as they say.

This is, some will say, how they want me to feel (the nebulous They, the conceit of a Powers That Be), but there is no They and I am but small-cased me, one more in the soul chaos, destiny soup. A small ball of dark matter spiraling ever outward in this vacuum. I am not powerless, but I know my power, and it is simply time multiplied by consciousness; consciousness at the ready for a chance. Even if the chance does not come, the consciousness is its own light. But I hope -- I hope, says the Shawshank narrator -- that the chance will come.

Be well. Keep your eyes open.