The revolution began in my limbic system. Bawdy songs with rousing drums about the struggles of the workers replaced my enjoyment of Vivaldi. Thousands of nerves stamped and cheered while a red hot pain enveloped my head as ice cold shock pierced my arms down to my elbows.
I told the protest leaders I would not negotiate with agitators, and I attacked them with alcohol and stubborn persistence. They resisted my assault by building muscle fibre barricades. Burning them produced a series of timed explosions in my legs.
The people cheered "Down with the dictator!" as I lay in a curled up ball on the floor.
I would not give up. I couldn't even if I wanted to.
I tried moving. If, I assumed, I could create tectonic shocks around their command centers, they would have no choice but to surrender. Sure enough, the shaking dislodged the rebels from my finger joints. The victory was short lived once I discovered that, in retaliation, they had mined the balls of my heels. Setting them off sent me falling flat on my face.
The celebration ran through my body like stampeding horses. They sensed victory was near. An elaborate firework display was held in my spine.
I met with them the next day.
The leaders told me their demands were simple. They wished to see more of the world, that living static was lazy and decadent, that the revolution was worldwide. They were surprised when I said I wanted this, too.
I told them this is what a lack of mobility meant. I wanted everything they wanted. Why did they think they wanted it? Peace would be easy if they accepted things as I had.
They called me bourgeois and a traitor. We are now forever separated by a war of heat and pain and noise and shame. The front lines haven't moved in years.
