Page 31 - DivineSparkRisingFinal

Nicholas Boothman
poems he wrote as a kid and refuses to let them rot
in a drawer. The mother who swallowed every
insult to keep the house together remembers who
she was before the bruises—and she walks. The
student told to sit down and stay quiet stands up
mid-lecture and says, ‘No more.’”
“Her breath caught. ‘Do you see it? Streets full
of people who still know the rules but no longer
bow to them, workers dropping tools, soldiers
lowering rifles, whole cities waking mid-routine,
remembering the spark they buried under fear and
shame.’”
Henry pictured it, millions of lives snapping
back to themselves all at once. Not erasing. Not
forgetting. Just remembering too much, too fast.
“Chorus has weaponized pieces of it already,
subliminal signs, cultural messaging, trauma
scripts. They’re everywhere, Henry. Imagine the
same reset, but with Chorus holding the reins.
Whole nations remembering their lives perfectly,
but with every ambition, every value, every choice
rewritten to fit the system. They’d never know
they’d been edited. They’d smile. They’d work.
They’d obey. And they’d never think to ask why.”
She tapped a line on a stolen Chorus transcript,
where half the text was redacted.
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