It is time.

 

This is the part they seldom write about in the history books—

the moment before the tide turns,

when the air is thick with fear and knowing.

It will not be easy...

And still—

You must stand.

Remember Selma,

when the bridge was more than iron and asphalt—

it was a test,

a dare,

a line that said no further.

Remember the Warsaw streets

where whispers became resistance,

where bread was smuggled

with the same care as the truth.

Remember the women, and children, in the mills,

the coal miners in the dark,

the students in Tiananmen Square

facing steel with nothing but their bodies

and the weight of enough.

They do not expect you to rise.

They are counting on your silence,

on your patience,

on your desire to play by the rules

when the rules have already been rewritten

against you.

Waiting on due process

is a luxury they have stolen from your table.

The time for petitions

and polite applause

is over.

Meet them with might.

Meet them with numbers.

Meet them in every street,

every square,

every place they swore you would never gather.

Yes—

it will get uglier before it gets better.

Yes—

there will be bruises,

losses,

names carved into the stone of memory.

But the power—

your power—

has never been theirs to give.

It has always lived in your joined hands,

your locked arms,

your voices swelling together

until the walls tremble.

And crumble.

Organize.

Rise.

The past is watching.

The future is calling.

It. Is. Time.

Tara Shannon, 2025