◆The Barbaric Yawp Project

I Don’t Want to Get Used to This I don’t even know what register I’m in anymore. Part of me is pissed. Part of me is just— tired. Like tired in a place I didn’t even know existed. You think exhaustion is physical. Or mental. Like you just need sleep. This isn’t that. This is tired in the part of you that believes people are basically decent. That part’s worn down. Not gone. Just— worn. And then somebody mocks somebody weaker. Or calls cruelty “strength.” Or wraps fear in a flag and everybody claps— and oh my God, it lights up again. The anger. The what-the-hell-are-we-doing part. Because the phonies are everywhere. And I don’t even mean that cleverly. I mean people pretending not to enjoy humiliation while clearly enjoying it. People pretending meanness is honesty. People pretending they’re protecting something sacred when what they really like is feeling superior. That’s phony. That’s the definition. And yeah, it pisses me off. Because empathy shouldn’t look naive. Kindness shouldn’t need defending. Decency shouldn’t feel like some radical position. And when the crowd cheers at someone getting humiliated— that’s the cliff. That’s the exact moment. And I still have that stupid fantasy about the field. Standing there. Catching kids before they fall. Only now the field feels tilted. Like the ground itself is slanted toward hardness. And I’m standing there going— Please. Don’t push each other. Don’t be so damn proud of being mean. And I don’t even hate anybody. That’s the strange part. I don’t wake up wanting anyone destroyed. I just don’t want cruelty to become normal. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. But here’s what scares me. (quiet) Sometimes I’m scared I’ll stop caring. Like one day I’ll hear the clapping and it won’t hit me in the chest anymore. And I’ll just think— That’s how it is. That’s what scares me. Not them. Not the phonies. Not the shouting. That I’ll get used to it. That I won’t feel it anymore. Because if I don’t feel it— then I’m just another guy in the crowd. And I don’t— I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to grow up into someone who thinks this is normal. Even if my arms are shaking. Even if I’m tired in that place I didn’t know existed. I’m still here. Still noticing. Still feeling it when something crosses the line. Maybe that’s the yawp. Not some big eagle over rooftops. More like— a tired kid who can still spot a phony from a mile away and still believes we’re supposed to catch each other before we fall. (soft) Oh my God. I don’t want to get used to this. Just— be better.