Inspired by the quote, “The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which particular representatives of the oppressing class are to represent and repress them.”

The ballot, a thin sheet held aloft, a supposed symbol of power, but the power feels distant, a mirage shimmering in the heat. Every few years, the ritual unfolds: representatives presented, polished smiles plastered across their faces. They speak of change, of progress, their voices dripping with promises that seem to evaporate the moment the final vote is cast.

But beneath the surface, a disquiet persists. The system, a web of interconnected interests, remains resolutely unchanged. The power brokers whisper, their influence a subtle force that shapes the very air people breathe. Change, if it comes at all, arrives in the form of crumbs tossed from a lavish table, a hollow victory that leaves a bitter aftertaste. Is this all there is? Another face, another name, but the game continues, the rules stacked against those who yearn for something more.

Yet, a tremor begins to rise, a discontented murmur echoing through the night. It’s a yearning for a different path, a hunger for a future not dictated by the ballot box alone. This disquiet speaks of a growing consciousness, a recognition that the status quo cannot, will not, endure. The oppressed, once resigned, begin to find their voices, their collective roar amplified by a shared sense of injustice.