[Insert Witty Title Here]

How do you cope with unbearable feelings of horror, rage, and utter hopelessness?

When every single breath you take imbibes more propaganda, misinformation, and outright bigotry, where do you find the strength to tune it out and create something?

If the world has morphed into something unrecognizable—even in the worst science fiction—where do you find the inspiration for a glimmer of hope, the potential to connect with a like-minded soul, or a defiant will to demonstrate possibility to the helpless?

Are you a “worthless drain on society” when your brain and body collapse in a catatonic breakdown because you honestly can’t handle any more outside input?

Where do you find solace from the panicked swirl of dread gaining control over your every thought process?

Is it selfish to take time for yourself to scream, throw things, break something, and stare into blank oblivion, or is it self-preservation?

Does your inability to breathe through the assault on the human psyche mark you as a useless, weak individual who should have been weeded out by evolution decades ago?

What do you do when the sight of a blank page or screen prompts feelings of bleak dystopian waste where once there were brilliant images of other worlds, new creatures, and people willing to brave disaster at (almost) any cost?

Who gets the blame for the utter lack of motivation weighing down your shoulders, your limbs, and your heart—you or the insane monsters howling at the door?

Do you get to find any excuse for dissociating to preserve the remainder of your sanity, or are you only allowed to contribute to the world in some measurable way?

Why is the human body capable of rudimentary functioning while the brain disintegrates into a useless pile of slush?

Which is worse: Giving up and committing uninspired words to a page or half-hearted lines in a sketchbook or succumbing to a blank mind because nothing will be as good as it once was?

Can someone survive unbroken if trapped within a neofascist regime that declares them “less than,” “other,” or “different?”

Whose work can continue unabated, blissfully unaffected by the horrors circling them and invading their consciousness at every moment of the day?

Has creativity already been destroyed—torn apart by the gap-mouthed hordes demanding a faster, cheaper alternative to soothe their indecisive natures?

Have all words of protest—whether incoherent screams, well-rehearsed speeches, or jumbled phrasings—proven useless in the face of the crushing weight of greed and power?

Should a person unable to digest another whisper of insanity be marked for the world to rain down criticism of their useless existence>

Am I capable of escaping the crushing weight of words that cancel my existence, question my mental faculties, and put my loved ones in death’s crosshairs?