I have the good fortune to not be in the crosshairs of those who would create this dystopian future that I see us hurtling towards so swiftly.  I will not be under the knife.  I will not be immediately and directly shackled.  Even if I should survive long enough to witness it fully bloom into being.  But I still feel it, still feel the pain and the suffering of those who are in those positions.  That’s one of the curses of the highly imaginative, of the creative.  I can feel, at least a little, what it is to be part of a marginalized social group.  Although I would like to argue that I am in fact part of a group that is marginalized, I recognize that I am more properly a protected, if marginalized, subset of the powerful majority.  That’s how I know that I’ll be okay.  That’s also how I can empathize.

And straddling that line, one toe dipped in power and one foot firmly planted in powerlessness, I have a fair view of the whole.  And I have no hope.  And so why should I bother?  Why write yet another tale that no one will read?  Just…fuck it all.  I’m just going to fuck off back to bed.  Doesn’t matter.  Fuck it.  

The powerful will have their power, and enslave the powerless, and the rest of us – those of us marginalized but not yet utterly powerless – will just have to sit and watch it happen.  Or die, trying to stop it.  But that attempt?  It’s futile.  Because it’s already happening, and nobody will acknowledge that it is happening.  Nobody is listening.  The only ones who care are those who are already in control, and they don’t need to listen.  They only need to make sure that no one else is listening.

So why bother writing stories warning of a dystopian future?  The future is now, old man.