The Anarchist

Memory: reading, and reading some more. Observing and listening. Vehicles burn, the hapless poor burn, innocent children burn, and hope: it burns to ashes blown away by a rich man's breath. A political tragicomedy and spectators choose protagonists; reporters in a frenzy to add numbers: numbers in death or numbers standing behind a banner to protest the deaths; the rich agonize over their inability to leave home and the poor agonize over their inability to remain home; meetings are held and marches are organized and Facebook statuses are updated; and nothing seems to be doing anything. Everything just burns and we stand in line to photograph the fireworks. I feel utterly helpless and oddly frightened.
Madness: the plan makes me happy. First step: locate where a select list of influential people live; learn how to make smoke devices with timers; make the said smoke devices; scout locations; plant devices, leaving threats to do worse next time; boom. Shake the ruling class into action against the actual terrorists. I feel like a hero until I am caught and sentenced to Jail. I feel utterly helpless and oddly frightened.
My maid comes into Jail and declares that lunch has been served. She is much younger than me, she should be in school, not pressing my school uniform and serving my lunch. I amble out of Jail and fetch my lunch from the dining table, setting it beside my laptop. I chew on puffed rice and greasy pumpkin as I think about my next status update. Shall I denounce the barbarism with passionate hate or shall I inspire people to snap out of their lassitude?  I am young and educated; I am powerful. I must speak up.
Is there anything new for me to say? Is anyone even listening?
If only I could get out of my jail, if only I could make those smoke devices. Then what? Nothing.  I shove some more rice into my mouth and accept an invite to attend a human chain. In a new tab I whimsically search how to make smoke devices.