The Revolution That Scrolls and Starves

The couch still calls. It always calls. Its siren song is soft, familiar, a lullaby of inertia. "Stay," it whispers, as the world burns outside my window. "Rest. The revolution can wait. It’s not going anywhere." And I listen. Of course I listen. Because the couch is warm, and the revolution is cold. The couch is easy, and the revolution is hard. The couch is here, and the revolution is out there—somewhere beyond the glow of my screen, beyond the endless scroll, beyond the safety of these four walls.

But the bread isn’t free anymore.

And the circuses? They’ve gotten worse.

I used to think I could tolerate anything as long as I had my distractions. Netflix. TikTok. A Big Mac and a large fry. But the distractions aren’t enough anymore. The bread is stale, the circuses are hollow, and the cracks in the system are too wide to ignore. The leaders keep taking, and the people keep scrolling, and the world keeps burning. And me? I’m still here, on the couch, watching it all happen in real time.

Sometimes, I wonder if the revolution is even possible anymore. Not because the system is too strong, but because we’re too weak. Too comfortable. Too distracted. We’ve been pacified with cheap entertainment and cheaper food, and now we’re too full, too numb, too tired to care. The bread isn’t free, but it’s just enough to keep us quiet. The circuses aren’t good, but they’re just enough to keep us entertained. And the revolution? It’s still out there, screaming for us to join, but we’re too busy scrolling to listen.

I see the comments. The memes. The jokes about how we’d revolt if only the bread were free, if only the circuses were better. But deep down, I know the truth: we wouldn’t. Not really. Because the bread doesn’t have to be free. It just has to be enough. And the circuses don’t have to be good. They just have to be loud. And as long as we have that—as long as we have our distractions—we’ll stay here, on the couch, watching the world burn.

But there are moments—fleeting, fragile moments—when the veil lifts. When the distractions fail. When the bread runs out and the circuses end and the silence becomes unbearable. In those moments, I feel the fire again. I feel the weight of what I haven’t done, the voices I haven’t raised, the changes I left for others. And for a second, I believe. I believe that I can do something. That I can be something.

But then the moment passes. The bread returns. The circuses start again. And the couch calls.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get up. Maybe tomorrow I’ll break the wall, jump the fence, and finally, finally, join the roar.

But for today, the couch calls. And I answer.

Because the bread isn’t free.

And the circuses are all I have left.