They call us morons when we notice patterns,
when we ask why wealth flows upward
like a law of physics
and poverty is treated as a personal failure.
Under the banner of the neoliberal gospel,
markets are holy, people disposable,
and exploitation is rebranded as “opportunity.”
The vote is free, they say,
but the choices are pre-owned.
We live in the precariat,
a class without contracts, without futures,
told to be grateful for instability
by those insulated from it.
They accuse us of being short-sighted
while strip-mining the next generation.
This system isn’t broken—it’s absurd on purpose.
It works exactly as designed:
profits privatized, risks socialized,
and frustration redirected sideways
so we blame each other instead of the architects.
From factories to platforms to borders,
exploitation is policy, not accident.
A spreadsheet decides who rests, who starves,
who is “essential” enough to be sacrificed.
But history doesn’t belong to shareholders.
When the governed stop asking politely,
when fear expires and solidarity scales,
the ruled remember they can emancipate—
not individually, not someday,
but together, and now.
Call that radical.
Call that dangerous.
Call us morons again.
The real threat is that we’re finally
paying attention.