The longer I live in this world, the harder it is to dream and believe in things. Life becomes a path of unanswerable questions, existential crisis, and the call to be stronger, less fearful, feel less, and forget more. It is wearying.
Be a Bolshevik,
Win the war
Push down the cold and hunger
Take the grain and fattest animals
But take no prisoners
Shed no tears
Be a Bolshevik, girl.
Bury the bodies at the forest’s edge.
Hide the losses.
Clean the wounds.
Be a Bolshevik.
Hold on to something, an idea or a gun.
Darken your heart against faith in good things.
Toughen up or the world will roll over you.
Forget your dreams and how to dream them.
Or they will choke a century of dreamers
with your blood.