Even if it sounds like a child's trick, an incitement to harm: ""rise up."" The phrase itself makes a catchy slogan on a cheap poster. But often beneath such innocuous strings lies something dangerous: tremors deep down, and rent cracks in the ground that foreshadow an eruption. It's not merely getting up on your feet; it involves shredding all those chains that tied your feet down in the first place.
Blood must spill before an earth fractures in an earthquake. From that raging fracture, a stickler green sprout pushes through. That is the term rise-up-force that gave existence, weight, against all odds, and against all whispered messages from the universe to stay down. Energy in a rebellion against gravity; the very old law in the universe.
A rebellion against the tone. It drums up rise up and doesn't ask it to get up; rather, it would beat up the restless, the tired, those who have experienced enough soothing sedation. Sometimes, disgust alone lights the flame for rebellion to ignite, not courage. Raw fuel for change usually comes from anger.
Even a revolt is not every time marching masses or fire barricades. It can also be inaudible. A writer is picking a pen after years of ghost-writing. A solitary soul opens up windows after being locked inside the mind for months. These revolts are silent and yet no less revolutionary.
And here's a terrible irony: every new rise generates another fall. For the world has its own gravity, social, political, economic, dragging it all back down. But that is the beauty of it. Rising is never final. It is a rhythm, a tide: collapse, rebuild, collapse, rebuild. Like the ocean which never stops returning.
Rise up does not indicate a final closure; it is merely a pulse, a war-drum inside the chest reminding us that as long as there is breath, the stage is not yet closed.
