As she sat in her cracked black leather computer chair with the too-high back, she played piano on her mechanical keyboard as a measure of wrath against the world. She told stories with poetry, long poems that would be epics a thousand years ago but today were tragedies. Stories of debt slavery and a burning Earth and hateful politicians and the sky falling on the innocent in the name of freedom and surveillance and artificial prophets for profit and the outrage of outrage and the comfort of the subjugated.
And no one read them, and it just made her more angry and made her write more poems of wrath, wrath against injustice, against ignorance, against apathy. She had the freedom to write it and everyone had to freedom not to read it. She didn’t hate them for choosing, she hated them for choosing memes and streamers over what really mattered. She hated the truth, which was that the people in power were only giving everyone what they wanted, and what they wanted was distraction. That the overlords were Santas, not Satans, and the problem with the world wasn’t the powerful, it was the powerless–including her. She was warm and well-fed and was listening to streaming music on her headphones while wearing Instagrammable clothes and glancing at her new smartphone and its butterfly-patterned case all paid for with her credit card as she thought about the next line in the poem she wrote on Google Docs for her blog that had no followers but a few likes.
And all the while laws were written to increase the profits of Google and Instagram and Apple and Spotify and Bose and Tumblr and Santa Claus at the expense of small business, and everyone was happier for it.
Day 282’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Wrath,” “The storyteller,” and, “Maximalist.”
Is it really so bad?