Once upon a time in a faraway land where democracy existed and communism wasn’t boring, there lived a girl who saw a demonstration and thought Look! Something happening! People accomplishing things. Change! Hope! Momentum! And she joined the demonstration, and she felt inspired.
Eventually though, she grew weary of the demonstrations. Of the aggressive police trolls. Of wasting time and energy expressing her discontent through pre-approved sanitized-for-your-protection child-proof pasteurized plastic-wrapped tactics. And she saw demonstrations for what they had become. Yet another opiate on the long list of opiates for the people. A state-approved channel for discontents to make themselves feel vital. A place where you could yell and drum and stomp yourself a little less angry.
And she became a cynical old man at the age of 25 and received her standard issue porch, rocking chair, and cane to shake at passersby.
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