So yeah, that was me.
Before the junta took over, while things were still in flux, yes, I wrote a few essays, a couple of poems… I was just trying to describe what I saw, and where I thought things were going.
Then I had the brain aneurysm. I went into a coma. For some reason, they chose to keep me alive, even though I was pretty much in a vegetative state. Maybe that was why.
(It was wonderful, by the way. I can’t tell you.)
But then somehow, for some reason, I started to recover. I regained full consciousness about a week ago.
I have been brought up to speed. Somehow, someone built on my meager writings, and managed to use them to construct a wide-ranging social movement.
They have overthrown the junta. They have established a People’s Republic. They have exiled – or executed – almost all of their opposition, all the men who represented the old order.
They also, somehow, managed to misconstrue or misinterpret nearly everything I had said, everything that I do in fact believe.
And now they have no idea what to do next.
Now I hear them, chanting, outside my hospital window.
They expect me to lead them into their bright new future.
They do not yet know that I have nothing to say.
What shall I tell them? How shall I tell them?