An Ode to the Shitshow
As the world spirals closer to doomsday
We sit behind white, bright screens, clacking on our keyboards in the dark of the night, leaning against a thin brick wall that separates us from whatever the fuck is going on out there.
@russianbabe pleads that if she could hold back the guns with all her might from crossing her threshold, she would. @orangecracker posts a meme at the expense of those shot dead thousands of miles away from him.
Our backs are hunched, our fingers are crooked, and our minds are numb. We scroll past one horrifying headline after the other, which leaves us with a sour aftertaste. We gulp an ounce of water or whisky to wash it all down, and also ✨ stay hydrated ✨ to compensate for the blood, sweat, tears, and survivor's guilt.
All the while, there are riots erupting in our own backyard, because a swarm of old cis men sitting in high chairs formed another manel to decide what the other genders should and should not wear. They want the women to be seen like they want to see them, not hidden like their browsing histories.
6000 years of civilization later, half the population is drowning in a sea of torn pages of the constitution, the religious scriptures, and the journalistic code of conduct, hopelessly trying to wade through the loopholes. While the rest have a scenic view from above the drudgery and wait in line for their turn to jump.
It’s 2022. We don’t speak in binaries. When it comes to war and peace, we don’t say ‘now or never’. We say, today, tomorrow, and forever. It’ll take a forklift, a pulley, and a slap on the wrist for the ones who stand hunched and ignorant today to straighten their backs and realise — that the others did not have to die so that they could keep on living in luxury.
When war comes too close to home, knocking at our door, know that there will be nowhere to run or hide. Because, the ones who lay down the roads, build the shelters, and voice the protests, would have already perished in their futile fight for you.