To sit complacently is strange.
To keep muscles motionless, mouth closed, keep quiet.
They preach at us. We are spoon-fed beliefs, facts, theories, ideas, carefully concocted to incite obedience and quell independence.
Don’t question the books, little cricket. Keep still and hold your arguments like stones piling on your chest. Lungs ache from silent effort, neurons in the brain crackle and fire off in emotional disagreement.
Don’t question authority, little cricket. They are older, wiser, stronger. They are in control, societal maestros hidden behind curtains of forced smiles and suggestions that always sound like orders.
Don’t speak up, little cricket. You should remember how the anxiety wraps its claws around your throat, scratching through thoughts that used to make sense and are now scraps of language that do not fit together.
To sit complacently is normal.
To keep limbs locked in place, lips forced shut, stay silent.
They will always preach at us, spoon-feed whatever belief of the day will keep us in line.
Get in line, little cricket.
Know your place.