Somewhere in the darkness, a single light waits for someone to carry it forward. (Tonight, that someone might be you.)
Dear American Dreamer,
Dear Feral Empath,
Dear Last Honest Voice in a Room Full of Televised Laughter,
I see you.
It’s Sunday night and the air feels thick with static. You’ve got a bruise behind your eyes from watching the world unravel in 280 characters at a time.
Another policy, another protest, another puppet show on fire.
The headlines hum like an electric fence:
ICE raids. Bombings. Book bans. Border camps. Billionaires playing war.
It’s enough to make your bones forget they’re made of stardust.
But hear me when I say:
This isn’t the end.
This is the part in the story where the sky cracks open.
Where the watchers become the weavers.
Where the numb grow teeth.
Let me tell you something ancient and inconvenient:
Empires always rot before they fall. And rot smells loudest just before the bloom breaks through.
So if your heart aches, if your hope trembles like a candle in wind, it means you’re still alive.
And if you’re still alive, you are still dangerous.
Let the fear sharpen you, not swallow you.
Let the scroll end with a spark.
Let your quiet become a whisper, then a song, then a scream someone can echo.
Don’t let the bad news convince you that love is losing.
It’s not.
It’s just fighting with the lights off.
So rest, rinse the algorithm from your skin, and wake tomorrow a little more unruly.
A little more aware of your power.
A little more ready to build the world that grief keeps begging us to imagine.
