Reality

I write too much of things that aren't real. The imagined fear and pain of living a life I haven't got.

This life I have, this life is real, and I am on the precipice of demise. 

The swinging pendulum of this Inquisition getting closer and closer, the sharp point prepared to emblazon by back with blood until I am cut through.

Life will not be the same after this end. It will not be a new beginning, it may be a false one. A restart, maybe, a reset. 

This country needs a reset. A hope. I cannot bring myself to hope for fear of a jinx, a missed knock on wood, the disappointing crush of

I don't get to live for myself anymore. I don't get to live.

What a day. What a joke this country has become. Where the collective is more important than the individual, where the fear holds tighter than the hope. A trap in the promise of freedom.

Freedom? When did we have that? We were built on pain, we were built on Hatred and Murder and Thievery. The White Man's Burden, said Kipling. That is America. The White Man, and his Burdens.

We have forgotten our roots but they poison us still. We are fed poison everyday, every minute that we breathe in a world like this.

I want to live for myself, I want to exist in a world where women have the same rights, if not more than, guns.

May I? No, not may. This is not a time to be polite. It is "I must". It is "I will."

It is "I have to".

We have to. To preserve the freedom we say we stand for, to preserve the love that still remains here because as much as I talk about leaving; this is my home.

I love it dearly. I do not want to watch it burn. But if it does, I will be there to witness with a pen to paper, and a simple "We told you so."