Because we know.
Each morning the sun rises, whether we see it or not, onward this planet goes in its over-sized celestial waltz, and we can’t help but wonder what used-to-be-shocks await us. Merriam-Webster’s word of the day was “agita.”
So for now we bear the weight, we resist against the weight, because it’s all that we can do. We can try to ignore the weight, to pretend it doesn’t exist, but we’ll find ourselves bending under it, the risk of snapping ever-greater with each added brick.
But we, the writers, must imagine the lightness when the weight is gone, that extra buoyancy that will feel like floating when it’s finally lifted. The artists among us must visualize that airy future and give us each a tiny piece of a weightless tomorrow.
We must continue to tell the tale of how things can be different, how they were different, how they will be different again. This weight is not forever.
For more on my thoughts about Charlottesville and rising bigotry, please read An Open Letter to My Friends of Color.
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