There is irony in my distaste for protest.

Sometime in my past – not so long ago, but far enough to seem somehow sepia still – I lost the taste for the protest of my youth.

In a moment, I went from everything being a statement to measuring my words.

I’m grown up. I’m more balanced. I’m pragmatic. I’m a coward.

I know not when rocking the boat became distasteful, know not when the boat I still disdain became… good enough.

All I know is that as I now watch people rise, I quickly dismiss their potential, if not their gripe entirely.

Of course, there’s cause to howl, but both Lear and you know all that this won’t accomplish.

For they you aim for sit alone in high towers.

No lateral missile ever reaches high enough.

I ignore that it never reached high enough back then either.

Back then, when rising up was a way to stand – the act itself was a victory – my goal was not the achieving of end…

This was certainly not my only measure of success.

The times we face are a product of every past concession.

We gave A to save and regrow b. We sacrificed B when ‘a’ once again looked weak.

Now, we’ve no healthy limb left to cannibalize.

Now, it all seems lost.

If the body is killed, the head will surely fall. (Even if that head is not the Head we were aiming at all along.)

But does this mean that there is no reason to stand?

Might this gesture, no matter how feeble, inspire others to follow suit?

Might the daring of youth breathe life into Secure, who sits on the sidelines resting his weathered limbs?

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