rage in the ether

yesterday, i imagined you walked into the library while i was reading a text about discrimination in the healthcare industry. i thought about the both of us not as artists, but as workers in the service economy, and i thought back to that wonderful sentence you wrote 5 years ago, "i rage in the ether." i have ruminated on that since i saw it so long ago, and the more time passes, the more i understand and relate.

you would have fought so hard if you knew what we were doing now, what we were organizing. if only you could see the tears that run down all of our faces and necks-- the snot running down our noses and the ugly wrinkles in our hopeless faces as we sob in isolation. you would have been so angry if you heard what we said tonight. i know i am, and i can't fathom how there are so many others that don't give two shits. 

i know the solution is always faith and direct action, but being immersed in the problem face to face or digitally, either way these days, is so daunting and dreadful. i feel myself forgetting to watch my tone when i get so overwhelmed. stay calm, have dignity. i'm sure you've heard this before. but how many cups of soup can we sneak out to give to hungry people on the street, how many posters can we make about violence, how many stickers do we cover the building with, how many bird spikes do we rip off the second floor, until we lose faith that any of it matters? how do i maintain the momentum? how do they not care.

you would have been so angry if you saw my friend tear up as she described the pain she feels when she hears all our stories about enduring the hatred of those more powerful than ourselves. 

i miss the ways your presence consumed the empty, white hallways and replaced them with the power of the people, the power of giving us a real fucking education. 

i miss you, and this is a letter you will never see. but oh god do i hope you understand this somewhere deep within your psyche. i cherish the impact you've had on me. thank you.