I’m just a kid. Adults don’t care much about what I think. But I do think. And I listen. I go up the tiny stairs to the attic and wipe the strands of cobwebs off the broken radio that my parents had dumped. And I grab the big knob in both hands and turn it until I hear the static. In that static I hear words. I hear voices.
I hear joy and sorrow, the distorted emotions of ages gone by, all coming from the grimy radio.
I hear change in the sound of commercials, the excitement of innovation crackling through the atmosphere.
I hear dissipation in the news reports, the apathy tinged sadness of what adults call culture.
I hear centuries crumble away as time progresses, destroying and building at the same time.
I hear struggling and harmony, discord and melody.
I hear life. Not just what we call life, but the true living and breathing heartbeat of society. And it might be damaged, it might be tainted, but it’s ours. Ours to nourish, ours to care for, ours to change,
But really, the only thing that wafts out of the dusty speakers is static, but in the static is a song, and if I listen long enough I can hear words to the song. But I don’t know what the words are yet. I’m just a kid. And it’s just a radio.
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