The undertrodden emanated their working-class, fourth world-conditioned, immigration-legislated soul ache with great-but-silenced lamentations, all of which gathered into a spine of neurotic knots that together once formed the backbone of the greatest economic powerhouse this side of the free world, though hardly a footnote in the credits.
Dispassionately you were chosen and not for the content of your character. A pawn in somebody’s game, only the game was life. Gunpowder they packed beneath you while you were sleeping. They didn’t care you were real. And when they blew you to smithereens, they discovered they were the ones who were dying, inside.
Pretty soon you would recognize the injustice, when you got done crying and feeling bad about it all. You awaken from the nightmare to realize that though your feelings were hurt, your true character was undamaged. You were whole. Your real friends came over with donuts and coffee, and knives to throw at the wall. And you tore it up together like always before, hanging out like nothing had happened.
Stashed in a pocket of pixels deep in your eyes, the memory remained, to remind you of human nature and how awful they can be. So you can keep yourself safe and be fierce when your character may be called into question. And when you see the injustice being concocted against others, you look out for them. You warn and defend them the best that you can, recalling how it happened to you. Always realizing, in the end, the dirt will come out in the wash.