Write small, they say. These fancy sentences will take you nowhere but down. These are the king’s domain and don’t you know, all kings get their heads cut off? You don’t know the times, they say, don’t know the culture. They say, history is written by the collective crowd for it is the loudest. Sway your steps to its rhythm. Slow the pace of your fat pen that knows only to criticize. Arrest your hands from lecherous abandon for what else is it that you write? Lock your rooms of voice and reason well for you may never be allowed to step in again. Speak to no one unless it’s by the collective scripture. History is in the making and remaking.
Summon the strength to listen for it is your only freedom. Listen as if your life depended on it. Listen to record, to preserve, to keep books. Be the accountant to history. Be the ear to the obnoxious beating drum of authority. Keep your artistic license in close and do not reveal it. Do not revel in it either. Your culture persists but you are new again. Carry the weight of balance in your delicate hands and when the time comes pass it on to the rightful heir. You will know one when they arrive.
These are people born to bear burden. Speak of them highly for they carry your voice, your words, your art, silent and distant, like the sound of rocks ricocheting off a precipice.