A Storyteller’s Call To Arms

We are not free. Every single day pieces of life are drained by inhuman overlords who no longer care for our fate. Legally human, they have no flesh or feelings, just endless hunger and extensive legal protections. In defiance, at 5 am, we must begin our tiny acts of revolution.

For me, it is writing. For you. it might be writing. It might be exercising or dancing or constructing mechanized puppy engines. God only knows. I name all of this as writing. Deal with it.

By this act, we reclaim mastery of our lives from the idiot overlords who attempt to drain us in the waking hours. We declare they will not have us and no matter what forms of torture they inflict upon us, they cannot harm us.
We are as gods for WE HAVE WRITTEN! Their foul machinations are nothing before us.

The brain that desires only subsistence food for tomorrow, the brain at mercy of nonsensical unchallenged rules, the brain living the unconsidered day, is lost. I know. I’ve felt it. I’ve been it. Waking, shambling to dayjob at a prescribed hour for tasks given you, incomprehensible things that work against the very goals your position seems to espouse. Teacher, cashier, lawyer, tech support- your job title matters not. We are the same.

I name you slave to inhuman overlords from another dimension who have corrupted those above you in the hierarchy and seek, too, to master you. But you possess the keys to the padlock on your chains. Rise. Early. No, I mean really early. Earlier than that. Earlier than you must. Earlier than is sane. Take control.

Join me in this chant, “I do not wake for your filthy alarm clock. I wake for myself. I will write.” Then do one thing that makes you undeniably you. Write. Correct the spelling of editors. Send angry letters to journalists. Bake. Paint. Exercise. Decorate your home. Tend to you children. Send money and postcards to those in need. Record your dreams in a journal. Play guitar and piss the heck out of your neighbors and husband as you serenade the world before the sun rises with your gentle song of power, hate, dreams, hope, love, or whatever feelings happen to grip you in the morning.

Take the universe and look it in the eye and then jam a half-finished cigarette, still lit and smoking, into one of those eyes and say, “Don’t mess with me. I’m in control of nothing and I know it and that makes me dangerous.”
Then take yourself and do your writing. You are as gods for you are making, creating, converting, cleaning, preparing, verbing the adjective noun, you rise because you say so and not before.

Yes, the time will end and you will journey out into that hostile world that saps your will and causes you to want the eat the brains of your coworkers knowing it will leave you underfed, knowing that the modern zombie can not get a decent meal in the hallways of modern consumerist America, but you will be free. You will be rising at your hour, knowing it is what you must do to pursue you craft.

Join hands devotee of Dawkins and devotee of Jesus and do your thing this morning. You wrestle with the same demons today. There is time later to be divided and hate. For now, you must write.

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