Staying Sane in the Age of the Megaphone Moron!

Never Surrender

There are mornings when I wake and feel a tightness in the chest before a word is spoken or a headline scanned. It's not coffee jitters, I’ve never had a cup, or last night's pepper heat, but the slow, suffocating erosion of decency that creeps in like rot under a peeling democracy. The voice of that mouth flapping brain-suffocated man—raspy with grievance, hollow with entitlement—rattles again across the airwaves. A bloated foghorn blaring over every station, every feed, drowning out reason with his shameless monotony. That voice is not just irritating—it’s weaponized. It’s the soundtrack to a planet being slow-roasted on a spit of falsehood and fascist nostalgia.

We don’t speak enough about the psychic cost of this. About how democracy's decline doesn't arrive with bombs or banners, but with daily interruptions. A tweet here, a crooked smile there, and suddenly, we're all unpaid extras in a low-budget sequel to “Triumph of the Will.” No one consented to this casting. But here we are, bracing for the next outrage, the next lie said with a grin and swallowed by millions. It’s a form of psychological vandalism—an ongoing assault on the collective nervous system.

So, how do we cope? How does the thinking, feeling person keep from collapsing under the stench of this grotesque carnival?

You build your republic. Inside. Quietly. Faithfully.

I do it through music, words and deeds. Others through gardens, sketchbooks, soup pots, long drives, laughter in corners the algorithm can’t find. You build a routine like a scaffold to stop the house from falling in. Morning tea becomes a ceremony. A walk before the world wakes—a march. Reading becomes prayer. Art becomes your declaration of autonomy.

Most importantly, you find your people. A tribe of the sane. People who see the same madness and don’t ask you to justify your rage or your exhaustion. You gather in small rooms or large threads and say, “Yes, I see it too. No, you’re not alone.” Because in times like these, isolation isn’t just a symptom—it’s a strategy used against you.

And when that fire in your chest turns from sorrow to spark, you act. Not always big, but bold. You vote like it’s your name on the ballot. You write like the truth needs you to breathe it into being. You show up, even when you’d rather vanish. Because agency—no matter how small—is the antidote to despair.

This is not the time to retreat into silence. It’s time to speak more clearly, softly, and truthfully than the bellowing circus act who thinks decibels equal depth. It's not. It's noise. And eventually, noise fades.

In the meantime, stay whole. Stay curious. Stay inconveniently kind. Wellness in the age of a wannabe despot isn’t spa days and affirmations—it’s resistance through grace. It's knowing who you are when they want you to forget. It's laughter at midnight, Eva Cassidy at dawn, and love with teeth.

This is your world, too. Your mind. Your joy. Don't surrender them. Not today. Not to it.