Locked away from the night, I miss
the shadowy, accidental penny,
glinting in the moonlight,
that the hipster drops from his pants,
The innocent je t'aime.
Eightfold over, we return
to the moments we suffered the most;
they taste the best in relief.
The Santa Ana's blew in this morning, a week before Election Day. I thought 'perhaps they are a harbinger of change', but I'm not nearly as confident of that kind of miracle as I was in 2016.
Back then, I believed that Americans were, at the core, basically decent, kind people. That as much as we advocate loudly for free market capitalism, we still will put people before profit. And that if and when tragedy struck, we would come together and hold each other up.
The last four years have shown me the depth of my naiveté. My 'born-on-the-fourth-of-July, rose, white, and blue' blinders have been ripped off, and I've seen what we've become. Or- more dishearteningly- what we've actually always been.
I hear many people say that they "miss the old America." I miss the illusion.
In the old illusion, there was hope. Increasingly, I cannot say the same for the real America.