It’s a sort of weighty hollowness—the daily realization at some point after waking that Donald Trump is still POTUS. We awaken to a daily nightmare where an old, angry man child with skewed priorities abuses his privileges and neglects his responsibilities and carries out someone else’s agenda.
It’s heavy, because most of us know by now that in order to move beyond this stifling malaise, we need to fight, put ourselves out there and risk catching the eye and feeling the wrath of an irrational adolescent who has no room in his heart, no capacity to empathize, no real desire to govern with a thought for what used to be certain ideals and hopes and expectations.
With each new day, I feel more inclined to believe that Donald is just a punch-drunk loser standing on the deck of a ship in the middle of a storm-tossed sea, trying to keep his balance, trying to stay focused on what matters most to him: total control, bricks and mortar and gold chandeliers, and crushing his enemies, who become more numerous by the day.
3 Cents' 