Somewhere in England

Somewhere in England, something is…happening. It is there, just in the corner of your eye, nagging at you like something scratching in the night. It is at your feet, in the wrinkled folds of a dead leaf, or in the scent of a fresh bloomed flower. It is nestled in the pages of books on feminism, all of them, that line the shelves in the public library, and on the riveted steel underbellies of railroad trestles. It is on the concrete blocks of foundations and on the hardened faces of brick walls.

It is an idea that is rising up from everywhere, and nowhere. It is spreading, though the infrastructure of human consciousness. It is plain, and obscure, both disturbing to the comfortable and comforting to the disturbed. It is a source of anxiety for those made anxious by change, and by truth that is disconcerting, no matter how obvious.

Storms are not the breath of the gods. Disease is not the calling card of evil spirits. The world, no matter how some will wish, is not flat.

And feminism…is a hate movement.

 

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The writing is on the wall now, from the US, to Canada, to Australia, to the UK and beyond. The truth is growing and moving through the collective consciousness like a mist, permeating everything, impossible to turn away from, and to deny. Pass it around, gents and ladies. A revolution in human thought is emerging.

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