Art Stardust

Insecurity vs. Spite

Artemis Stardust
Artemis Stardust
– 2 min read
Insecurity vs. Spite
A busy city street at night. The streets are wet, pedestrians carry umbrellas, and the lights shine off the dark roads. Buildings show brightly lit signs and advertisements, with an AT&T billboard and McDonald's sign most recognizable. Photo by Jiarong Deng.

The number of drafts I have saved in my 2025 folder for the blog: about 35

The number of posts I've completed and posted since the beginning of 2025: 2

Reason: too much insecurity, not enough spite.

I know my silence won't save me. This knowledge fails to reach past the freeze response that is far older than my rational mind.

Right now is the last time that I should be writing. I'm anxious. I don't have a plan or a topic. I just need to string words together for the sake of making my brain slightly quieter.

The thing is, I have a LOT of spite. What holds me back is fear that whatever I do is not going to be enough to match the amount of spite that I have. The system is built in such a way that one (1) action done out of turn can get you locked away for life. One word, one speck of dust from the wrong plant, is enough. It doesn't even have to be violent.

The people doing the most violence in this world will never be subject to its punishments.

I fear for my life like my inaction will save it. I freeze like that doesn't make me easier prey. I am deer in the headlights until that fender collides with my body.

Just another roadkill won't stop the traffic of millions.

Even if we organized millions of peaceful protesters, whose bodies will make a bullet ricochet? Whose bodies and minds can survive without food and shelter? What published words can prevent the drop of a bomb, or the simplistic inescapable weight of locked shackles?

We are flesh and bone, trying to compete against computers. Drowning out our words. Burying our livelihoods. Crushing us with brute force, both in strategy and physical strength.

Us! It's always them until it's us.

All of us.

I worry that writing is the stuff of lament, not hope. I worry that hope may serve to pacify, anyway. Survive today, the fight is tomorrow. Over and over, until no strength is left to fight, no awareness remains to recognize the war at the door.

But, like I said, right now is the last time that I should be writing. I'm anxious.

These thoughts run fast in a mind that is too preoccupied to move.

Immobilized by my own thoughts, I cannot escape the impact.

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