The same formula played out yet again. The rallying, the destruction of property, the loud demands—this endless practice presented as a way of making a stand. We witnessed it yesterday and we'll witness it again next month. It’s the same script, a predictable and hollow performance where noise is mistaken for momentum. It’s a repetitive, unyielding gesture that serves as little more than background noise to the system itself.
We’ve grown complacent with this show, just as we have with its digital version. This isn't empowerment; it's a distraction. It's the same tune resounding through a hollow expanse, with everyone convinced of their unique solo, unaware they are simply adding to the collective clamor.
The performance of change is a script we know by heart. It mirrors a prevailing dramatic motif that has stagnated for decades, much like our television dramas, where the shouting is mistaken for the performer's range. It is an unyielding, formulaic display. It's an inauthentic performance of consuming a meal of grilled meat without the essential fermented side dish, a ritual of samgyeopsal without kimchi, devoid of its authentic flavor. This is also the domain of those who do zumba, believing in a physical transformation, yet remain unwilling to follow through religiously. We abandon the difficult, slow work for a quick, empty reward, just like engaging in vigorous exercise only to promptly indulge in fast food after the dance.
The problem, however, runs deeper than the performance. The source of it is the unbreakable chain of causality we are perpetually connected to. It is an intricate, inescapable apparatus where our supposed actions only serve to pull our own. This causality is our collective identity, a long and unbroken series of links that we are unable to break free from.
The chain's true grip is not in its weight, but in its psychological hold. It tricks us into believing we can insinuate a change by simply tugging on it. Our efforts to sway their convictions are like pulling a tether, envisioning it might reach their inner sentiments, somehow compelling a change of outlook. This would necessitate a truly transformative event, presuming a lifetime guided by decency. Yet, what if decency was never present? What leverage do we possess? There are no heartstrings on this chain to pull.
They mock us, feasting like kings in their secure fully airconditioned mansions, amused and detached observers to the chaos unleashed by the masochists baking under the sun. We've already given them our tax money, and the chains that bind us compelled us to offer more—the hours we gave them yesterday. Both were rightfully our own.
PS: This article was co-written with Google Gemini
Related: Bedrock, Bruises, and Broken Dreams
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