Wake early to incessant buzzing. I'm at work at the polling station. 5 am. I am seventh in line to vote. 6:15 am. Daylight Saving jet lag brings me out of strange dreams, the reality of the day snaps me to instant attention. Christmas Day. But bad. My throat is sore, a slow November congestion making its way through my muscles. Read the room, I tell it, but none of the monsters are reading the room this year, why would this one be any different? I wonder what plans I have to cancel, when I can get tested for worse ailments. Everything all at once.
It's a day of italics. A day of squeezing sentiment between the lines. Everything all at once. Here is the day, did you do all you could? Thriving is an act of resistance. A new story builds itself at my fingertips, on the blank page. It speaks of the fallout. It speaks of the Resistance. If it doesn't go your way, will you move back home? he asks from across the sea.
But this is home. If it doesn't go your way, if your house is on fire, do you leave it behind? Or do you stay, in defiance, and try again to make it better?
Do you stay,
and determine to thrive?
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