Low Definition

There was a time when movies made us.
When TV shaped our nights.
When games lit our eyes up like fire.
When stories gave us meaning, purpose.

Now?
We scroll.
We post.
We shuffle.
We vanish.

What defines me now but this static I pour into the void,
day after day,
hoping someone reads it,
knowing no one does.

You're not a savior.
You're not a prophet.
You're not the one who wakes them.

Let them sleep,
content in their curated existence.
Let them dream in low definition.

The Menu

They hand you a laminated menu. Two choices. Red or blue. You ask if there’s anything else. They smile like you’re stupid.

“These are the only options,” they say, like it’s natural. Like it’s always been this way.

Both are bland. Both are cold. Both are owned by the same kitchen in the back, run by people who don’t eat what they serve.

You point out the grease. The mold. The roaches crawling in from the floorboards. They call you a radical. A conspiracy theorist.

“You must pick one,” they say. “It’s the only way to be part of society.”

So everyone sits. Everyone chews. Everyone complains about the taste but keeps coming back.

They don’t realize they could flip the table.
They could burn the kitchen down.
They could grow their own damn food.

But that would mean standing up.
And standing up is scary.

So they sit.
And chew.
And swallow.

And call it freedom.