They told me we’d represent a shift, at the turn of a century comprised of stupid kids.
That our parents wished none of the struggle,
transient troubles they sought to keep contained, to taint our potential. No, we would all be rock gods and philanthropists, soldiers of course-correction, an agency of change.
But here we are,
twenty years down the detour to degenerate narratives. The fields we ran are infertile where concrete traversal tell a story twenty-two floors high.
All that’s left of this world is yours if you can accept watching it die.
It’s only natural we’ll tell brilliant young minds the same when we grow old and grey.
It’s only a matter of time before you become a masochist in practice, dropping dreams on a dime.
Why bother being saviours when everyone else is clearly fine?