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The wind blows soft—a hushed, unseen whisper,

Along the path, its voice flows ever onward.

It speaks of pasts long buried,

And futures not yet born.

In silence, we begin to hear it clearly—

Truths once forgotten,

Left behind in the noise of the world.

We walk toward a fate uncertain,

Burdened by dreams too bold to name.

Along cool shores, waves kiss our feet—

And still we wonder: what are we meant to know?

The mind races—faster, faster—

Grasping at truths we’ve been forced to accept.

On the road, we glimpse

Wandering souls caught in the current.

We look to the sky—

But what do we truly see?

Mysteries veiled in the mundane,

Secrets kept from those who take,

But never sow.

When do we know?

At journey’s end,

When the veils are lifted,

And all illusion fades—

We see it, finally:

The right to be free

Was always ours to claim.

I watch the world pass by — unchanged, unkind,

And feel myself falling behind.

I see others smiling, light as air,

While I just sit and sigh,

Watching everything I dreamed of drift by.

I wanted a great love in high school,

Like the movies promised,

A happy ending my younger self believed in —

Pure, simple, golden.

I dreamed of success, of being known,

But here I am, tired, alone.

The world feels crueler now,

Heavy with sorrow and disdain.

My enemies thrive,

While love moves slow, if at all.

The wicked wed and celebrate,

While the kind are left to wait.

Good hearts suffer silently,

No matter what they feel.

When did life become so bleak —

And karma so unreal?

How are we meant to bear

A world that doesn’t care?

Some dreamed of stars,

Of rockets and space.

Others longed for fame,

Only to find an empty place.

Still more just wanted peace —

A life that could breathe —

But under tyrants’ rule,

Even dreams begin to bleed.

I remember a world that felt just,

Where justice wasn’t just dust.

But now, the cruel are crowned with love,

And fairness fades like smoke above.

I wished for peace and purpose,

For love by thirty,

For joy without cost —

But that world is lost.

Now, everything turns to rust.

Anger simmers beneath every breath,

And dreams dissolve in silent death.

Where is the happy ending —

The one we used to trust?

What happened to my world?

Broken.

Unjust.

When the election happened not long ago, I warned that Donald Trump aspired to be a dictator—that our rights were in jeopardy, that he would damage this country in ways we couldn’t yet comprehend. But no one wanted to listen.

Now, recent events seem to confirm those fears. Trump has systematically dismantled the very fabric of the America we once knew. He’s sent U.S. Marines—an institution meant to embody honor and discipline—into Los Angeles to serve as his personal enforcers. He has repeatedly disregarded the Constitution, and perhaps most dangerously, he’s emboldened and legitimized some of the most racist and bigoted elements in our society.

I see the fallout every day on Facebook: people openly celebrating the arrest and deportation of innocent immigrants, often because of nothing more than the color of their skin or the country they come from. They deny their racism, but it doesn’t take a genius to recognize the hate just beneath the surface. Tragically, many of these same individuals voted to give Trump a second term.

Supporting Trump has become more than a political preference—it’s become a personality trait. And I couldn’t, in good conscience, remain friends with people who stand by him. To support Trump requires a dangerous cocktail of willful ignorance, racial prejudice, and a chilling lack of empathy. It means turning a blind eye to lies, embracing policies rooted in cruelty, and calling for the expulsion of families who came here in search of a better life.

In the age of Trump, we’ve lost our moral compass. We’re governed by the unqualified, and too many live in fear of those in power. This isn’t what America was meant to be. Our nation was founded on the idea of a government of the people, by the people, and for the people. Trump has taken a sledgehammer to that ideal.

How we fell this far is something I’m still trying to understand.

What I do know is this: We need help.

Lest I forget,

The feelings I dared to feel before. 

    While I listened to the sound of the wind and the echoes of memories long past. 

     Of times not meant to last, 

   Dare I remember the song of the rivers, ever flowing,

   Peaceful as it seems before a storm. 

     As I look at the sky what do I see, but the clouds floating most effortlessly,. 

     Lest I forget the memory of those who come and are gone for eternity.  

    Do I feel them nearby, whispering, wondering; 

Oh, how the days go by. 

    their voices whispering, thinking. , 

       what, then, do they say? 

   Do they tell me tales of peaceful ways, or sadness that will not go away. 

    Do they guide me toward a better way? 

  Do they sing us songs of honor and promises of a better day? 

    Again and again do, I ponder. 

The state we see as ever changing as the tides. 

    Dare I wonder what may come and watch the skies every way.  

    The skies change each day, ignored by those led astray, 

As still as stone, unmoving or changing,

Not seeing the realities in any way. 

    Many years pass, and blindness surrounds the lo as it once. 

    Lest they forget. 

     What stories the trees have to teach, and what wisdom can come from the voice of the wind. 

   Whispers of truths lost and forgotten, 

Of times that we had lived before, 

     When we sleep at night, what dreams do come? 

    Softer than a cloud or wilder than a storm. 

 The dreams we dare to dream no matter the norm. 

    Can I ascend the tallest mountain, or swim in the most immense sea, can I be happier than I could never be. 

     Shall I fly through the sky on the wings of a dream, Dare my eyes perceive things that are not what they seem.

     Will we ponder the truths lost and forgotten or the mysteries hidden behind the scenes? 

     Can we dream of the light of a better day, and finally, we will find our way? Lest I forget to look forward to a brighter day. 

I look at the clock near my window, 

     And think long at how times unfold. 

Hour upon hour passes and my mind wanders. 

    An hour before a tragedy, an hour ahead and things are fine again. 

    A day pass and with the new light, chaos the beginner of all things shows me. 

    A month, a year, and further we can’t see. 

   The future as mysterious as the stars. 

       On the wings of a dream do we wander looking for the answers. 

     Oh clock on my wall teach me. 

    Show me how to weather the storms that come in time. 

    Guide me in the ways of patience to wait out the storms of life. 

    Do we remember the faults of the past and let them teach us. 

    Lest me make the same mistakes that had destroyed us before. 

     Lo do we see the failures of our forefathers but ignore them. 

    We are but children in the eyes of those come before. 

   What then is the path the path forward. 

        Paved by blood of those to come or of struggle lead to prosperity, 

      When then will we see the chaos end. 

         Like the hands of a clock we continue on, 

      The future yet undecided and truly uncertain, but at last it will always come. 

There’s a grey cloud over my window,

Though I don’t know how it got there.

The weather is so cold it’s almost hard to bare.

I don’t know how we got here, and why people are unaware but the land that I once knew is barren and so bare.

There’s a shadow on the horizon and chaos brewing soon.
I sit at my table drinking tea at noon.

I once knew a land of prosperity a land meant for the stars.
Where people were treated honorably and no one was tossed aside.

I once knew a nation where law was heeded made to abide.
Where we did not have to hide.

I once knew a government that was not very corrupt.
Where a mad man can’t gain power, and our leader was so just.

But here we are in this new world where craziness erupts.
Where chaos brews, and people fear and no one really trusts.

But hope remains and the sun will rise as it always does.
We will band together, and survive the storm coming thus.

I once knew a people who were generous and kind,
A people bent for unity no matter the type of mind.

I once knew the song of the wind, peaceful and divine.
The movement of the rivers flowing mighty fine.
The voice of the mountain thunderous and loud.
A environmental so great it would make the gods proud.

I once knew the truth,
That people were mostly kind.
What happened to this pretty world that we left behind.

Ever since I was young I wanted to enter the film industry. I didn’t know it at the time but the creative fervor of the 90s independent film boom spawned such classics as Pulp Fiction, Dazed and Confused, and Clerks had breathing room to live alongside studio masterpieces such as Jurassic Park, Titanic, and the Matrix. This isn’t even to mention the Disney Animation resurgence with films such as the Little Mermaid, The Lion King, Beauty and the beast, and Aladdin. These were all films that you could be proud were part of your childhood each one was a work of art that had such creative power! These were Films that anyone of any age could go back and watch again and again, the creative spark behind each frame bringing a smile or tear to anyone of any age, in a manner of speaking they transcended generations. But more importantly, and central to our cultural consciousness of how art evolves, you were confident that these totems to a time and place would remain the same (george lucas notwithstanding), being eternal time capsules to the myriad creative voices of a time and place; which have become foreign today.

In recent years I have lost that foundational faith.

Authorial internet is not just under attack, it is being erased and retconned. Whether it is children’s books by Roald Dahl being rewritten to not offend the youth of today or Huckleberry Finn removing it’s most offensive language to be suitable to today’s standards, we are not just reinterpreting authors words, which is and always has been fair game. We are changing the author’s words. That is something I find not only deplorable but terrifying for the future of art. Censorship is one thing. It has always existed. But to go back and change a dead author’s actual verbiage, the actual words and ideas communicated through them in essence their vision. degrades and mutates a healthy product. It’s giving chemo to a patient without cancer or insulin to a person who isn’t diabetic. The job of education, or Art, is to challenge, to push boundaries, and more prosaically to show how the world existed in the time and place of when it was written. We read Mark Twain not only for his prose and wit, but for the world he creates, a world we never got to experience. We get to experience the horrors of racism through Twain’s wit. We experience the controversial and twisted mind of Roald Dahl through his words and stories. And it is the job of teachers and readers and elders and precocious readers to discern all this for themselves. Not for political idealists who want to push their ideology on us.

Therefore, in our current era where cultural forces from across the extremes of political and ideological spectrums want to change and alter past creations, we must be vigilant in our watch. When a story comes from a time and place, it should reflect the author’s vision of that specific vision. To change it at will might seem harmless. Some say does it matter that Ariel from the Little Mermaid is black? Does it matter that Cleopatra or Anne Boelyn are being played by black actors? It is easy to say this doesn’t matter, I believe the reasoning they use is that these were fictional characters. But in an age where identity matters, and the mindset that says “to understand a culture you must be part of the culture” reigns supreme, I detect a sinister double standard. The Little Mermaid comes from a Danish folk tale. I happen to be partly Danish. My culture is Scandinavian. In an era where I can’t even wear my own culture’s insignias on a t shirt without being called racist, simply because some idiots have appropriated Scandinavian culture for white supremecist imagery, it is more important than ever that culture be respected and not changed to fit current political trends. The Little Mermaid is a Danish Folktale. It should reflect the world in which it was written. Cleopatra was a descendent of the Greek nobility which ruled over egypt. Her being white is central to her existence as coming to grips with being part of the ruling family that ruled over their colonial possession. That’s not even addressing the fact that “white” as a concept did not exist back then. Making Anne Boelyn black completely erases her English ancestry which was central to her identity. A movie about Montezuma would not cast a white man to play the last of the Aztec leaders, nor would a movie about MLK Jr cast a white actor to play a black historical figure. And for good reason. Their identities were l central to their being.

The political headwinds that are forcing creators to change past works, change the identities of the characters from past works, and the inevitable self censorship that comes with creating new pieces of art has made me despondent over the future of creativity. I’m not saying you can’t change expectations. Hermoine was recently cast as black in the Broadway Harry Potter musical. But since J.K. Rowling never specified her race and was writing in the 1990s, a time when London was a multicultural melting pot, there is freedom to interpret her character. That’s fine. But to change the past won’t fix the present. Our current issues won’t be fixed by making cleopatra or Anne boleyn or peter pan black or asian or mestizo. They only can be fixed if we can read past works and adapt them the way they were made and have a conversation about them as they are. As they were meant to be.