Wednesday Evening Dispatch: The Midweek Molotov
They count on the lull.
Midweek is where momentum goes to die.
Where outrage gets muted by routine.
Where the revolution is reduced to a sigh
and filed under “maybe tomorrow.”
But I am not a pacifist tonight.
I’ve read too much.
Felt too much.
Bit my tongue too many times while my country
bleeds out
beneath boardroom lights and campaign slogans.
They want us tired.
They want us quiet.
They want us grateful for the boot on our neck
because at least it’s familiar.
But I did not come here to offer comfort.
I came here carrying matches.
So if your soul is heavy tonight—good.
It means you’re still capable of feeling.
If your voice is hoarse from screaming—good.
It means you haven’t gone numb.
If your hope is cracked and leaking—good.
It means you’re still trying to hold it.
This dispatch is not a lullaby.
It is a bottle,
a rag,
a whisper of flame at the lip.
Light it.
Throw it.
Let the silence burn.
We’ll sleep later.
Tonight, we remember what we’re made of.
Bombs away,
Rebecca M. Bell
🕊️ @rmbellwrites
🔔 The Bell Rings
P.S.
Some fires are born from friction.
Some are passed from hand to hand.
But the ones that last?
They start in the throat.