No, I should be protesting injustice. But not the injustices of today. People complaining about TV and TikTok influencers.
No, real stuff. Paris, 1968, in some arrondissement where the air smelled of rain, tear gas, Gauloises, and history trying to kick a door open.
I should be standing shoulder to shoulder with exhausted philosophers, angry students, dockworkers with trembling hands, and a communist puppet named Gérard who hasn’t slept since De Gaulle spoke on the radio.
The sort of protest where everyone believes the world might actually change by morning.
Not because they are optimistic. Because they are desperate enough to try anyway.
And somewhere in the crowd, between the red flags and existential collapse, there I am: a middle-aged felt revolutionary with a damp tweed suit and the vague suspicion that I missed my historical moment by about fifty years.
- IF I WERE A MUPPET
