A Call to Arms

This is a narrative.

It begins and it doesn't exactly end yet - there's no end of an era here yet. The Nineties Kids are growing up, coming into our own

The best minds of my generation -- the fangirls, the blog-activists, the online geniuses --
I see them flourish and flounder, teaching themselves and each other,
Writing, making pictures move, passionate over so many things, passion like a whip.

But the whip is on the wall, tails unbloodied.

This is a narrative.

And the whip of their passion is locked away like it's shameful,
like there's a difference between "real life" and the vast digital ocean they've conquered,
For all that brilliant mind at the pommel of the whip, they hide it.

I say "no more."

Let us put the whip upon the mantle for ease of use,
Like our fathers kept their guns,
And let us take it down gently, let us revel in using it,
Let us not hide what we know or what we feel,
Let us strike with our passion mighty blows,
Let us leave stripes on the hide of the waking world of apathy
Let us and our whips prevail.


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