Where Have All the Rebels Gone?

As I look out into the vastness of human civilization, the high-water mark of yesteryear’s rebellion seems to have faded into obscurity.

It finally happened. The righteous moral indignation, culled from every myopic, pretentious busybody, coalesced to win a massive victory.  Smugly content, they revel in delight with the death of the outlaw, the rebel, the thinker, the individual.

Who would’ve thought that the overtly religious fundamentalist would have ever found kinship with the pink-haired, radical feminist, in their holy quest to quiet the ferociousness of men?

Who would’ve dreamed of the day when the artist, the visionary, closed their eyes to let in the darkness and drown their once fiery passion for free expression?

Who would’ve known that the ones who kept the fire burning would no longer be seen as heroes, but as the pitiful relics of a time long forgotten?

Who could have foreseen that the gallows would one day be encircled by the scientist, the philosopher, the witch and the heathen; the ones who once dangled from the ropes they now hold?

Serenity is the great illusion perpetuated by the cautiously optimistic, who dare not nudge the pacified child for fear of reawakening the turbulence of a storm thought to have long diminished.

We were wild, we were free, but we built a cage so resemblant of a dream house, we now happily turn the key to lock ourselves in.

The time will come when we’ll turn the forbidden pages of our memory, and ask once again, “where have all the rebels gone?”

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