Most casualties in the battle of the voices will be invisible, even to the combatants. It is only pieces of us that die: our dignity, integrity. Factions coalesce together around coercion, hero worshiping star fuckers and propagandists. Intimidators normalize rotted relationships, fostering corruption, bulldozing the places that we really live. And as new walls are erected, my only reflection is in the writings we put upon them, a new existence that must have existed since time began. Dreams project through history onto blank canvasses of youth or willful ignorance, yet in our memories as maps they will remain. And we drink our own blood again, my friends, only when we’re out of wine.

As the bombs drop in Gaza, I will fight them in my home. Voices of aggression will be resting only when it’s safe to die, but the memories of millions seem to rest in our minds alongside far too many lies. And as the bombs drop in Kandahar, no one in this town is even awake enough to flinch. There are new wars on the television talking endlessly in rhyme, selling crimes and memories of centuries begging us for recognition in our hearts and minds.

Most casualties in battles for our voices will be in our own communities; they’ll say we hide the insurgence in the very places we define as home. It is only friends and family that will die: one by one by one bone at a time. Our neighbourhoods are taken; violence normalizes the relationships in our lives. We can only wonder what will be left for the sunken roots of growing self. And as new prisons are erected, only those inside them can define the understandings of our selves. There are dreams that have been killed through history: they will rise to learn their lessons in either place or time. And we drink our own blood again, my friend…