I am making myself seen. I am making myself heard. I am not fearless or irrationally courageous--rather, I am filled with a fiery, disquieting anger and a dissatisfaction that pumps virile, potent energy into my veins, spurring my muscles into action. I am showing the men in this tank--yes, there are men inside, cowering behind a façade of power and industrially militaristic unity--an important difference. I am showing them the difference between killing one man and mowing down hundreds, the difference between feeling my body go "bump" beneath the heavy, chained wheels of their vehicle of death and destruction; and watching from behind thick, plated windows as bullets which only rattle the tank distantly pierce the fleshy bodies of anonymous uprisers. I, quite literally, make my stand today. I use my meager physique, armed with only the weapon of man's incomprehension of death and murder, to stop a thousand pounds of violence. My light footsteps dance in front of the arduous, heavy jerkings of the tank. I feel the heat from its engine about my legs as I attempt to anticipate its movements. Then, there is nothing left to do but mount the beast itself, searing hot beneath my vulnerable, human hands, purring as its inwards squirm in my presence. I climb onto the most savage horse in the world...

The lamp post knows nothing of my struggle--of our struggle. It is an impartial observer to this theater of politics, oblivious to its brethren, its brother of metal and technology, its own "flesh and blood." A beacon of humble light in contrast to a weapon set against its maker--stable, upright, and steady.

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I have my orders. I know what I have to do. I am going to do it. I am doing it. Pushing forward in the warm, dependable comfort of my marching orders. There is no question of what is right and what is wrong. I push forward. I can feel the grind of the gears and heavy machinery rumbling beneath my feet. We are moving, we are moving onward. But a man is in front of me--not a "man" (he is my age), but a man in the sense that I can feel the courage of his bare actions in stark comparison to mine. He is not faceless, he is not covered, he is not protected, whether by sheets of metal or sanction from above. His clothes are thin, his figure lithe; a modest opponent against an unfathomable mass of invulnerability. I cannot crush the life of this man from his confident body. I plead with him to move; I beg him in my mind not to put me in this imposition. I know what I have to do, just let me do it. But a seed of doubt has been planted in my mind: is this right? The eyes of more tanks stare from behind, piercing me with expectation and anticipation, but I do not know what to do. I am in the spotlight, sandwiched between this extraordinary man and their news cameras, and a dozen armed tanks and the government building from whence I came.

Inside, wrapped in gauze, my fragile heart begins to beat in a frenzy, struggling to break free of its confines--to disintegrate itself, to flee from this unworthy corps.