What meaning have written words have to the blind? Songs to the deaf? And soft sensations to numb skin? It’s senseless. But if we fail to look beyond the rational, how can we see if these conditions are meant to hide the trickery behind the veil of weakness and peace. The lies are woven as intricately as fine threads, like string formed into the sly spider’s web, woven and spread like a blanket across districts. Yes, we are held by our limbs and necks, threatening and coercing us in such familiar ways. But then we, ourselves, handed the hangman our own noose. Democracy. Who is in control in a democracy? The democracy made by the people, for the people. It rings so sweetly on the ear. The phrase which teases and lures the weak and unprepared mind, drawing it into the blade. Yes, democracy. The weapon of the selfish man. The chains which caress the whistle of the northern wind, calm and soothing, but cold that will freeze to the bone. Democracy, fueled by the voice of the masses. But what drives the masses to speak? Hunger, fatigue, pain, despair, ambition, money, and fear. Will you not vote for the killer if you already feel the cold steel of his gun against your head? We do have thoughts of our own. Yet, do the words we speak rise from our own thoughts? So many parrots echo in such a ridiculous manner. We look to much, but not deep enough. We have our own eyes, the gift of sight. But why do we use our voices to search for candles to replace the broken bulb? The heat melts ice, tempers flare. Yet, the pleas head straight into the abyss. Easier said than done. Not everyone yearns for the same things. But most of the time, my problems are the same as yours. I hold no grudge against you, nor against the democrat. I just know this one thing, those who choose not to speak, drinks the toxin of their own spoiled saliva. I’m not into dying just yet.

-Aissa Panafiel and Migs Ocampo