Turbulence

No crisp edges. No patriotic clarity. Just the vibration—that ever-present hum of chaos we’ve learned to call normal. The focus wouldn’t hold because nothing holds anymore. Not the facts, not the future, certainly not the goddamn tripod of democracy when the ground itself won’t stop moving.

I thought about all the hands that stacked these stones. The blood and sermons and slave labor baked into the mortar. Now we’re the ones tilting in the wind, watching the apex waver as the vultures circle lower. The memorial hasn’t changed. We’ve changed. The camera only caught what’s been true for years—we’re all just trying to steady the frame before the whole picture dissolves.