You are going to call me things. You are going to call me violent, of course. You’re likely going to say I’m a thug, perhaps an extremist, maybe that big $5 terrorist that you’ve gotten so used to throwing around. But, I’ve decided to break stuff, and I have my reasons. I’m angry. I’m frustrated. I have grievances. Grievances that have not been redressed, are not being redressed, and which hopes of being redressed… I have seen repeatedly slip away. I would say I were getting used to it, losing faith in finding justice. But that wouldn’t be true. The fury is still within me, and it is not my hope that is dying, but my faith. Mainly, my faith in your offers to address the grievances which have not been redressed, are not being redressed, and, you know the rest. It’s not that I don’t hear you when you say all those things you say, to reassure, to tell me that you will make changes, that it’s not urgent, that the price is too much, it’s not the right time, that this and that and all your ‘reasons’ why. The issue is, I think you do not hear. Or, what really is coming to the center for me is that, for some reason, you do not believe my voice is the same as your voice. When I speak, I mean it, and you listen. And you speak back, but you do not speak to my voice. You do not seem to have registered, or is it simply that you do not believe. In my grievance. In my pain. In my need. Something tells you that… your voice, which ignores my voice, has the power to sooth that which you do not acknowledge. But this is wrong. And so, in order to make myself heard, and to make me… feel real… again… both for you… and for myself. I have decided to break stuff.