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He woke up with a cloudy haze in his eyes. The more he rubbed them, the more it seemed to fill up with smoke. He couldnt help but want to lay his head back on the pillow. He quite simply didnt want to wake up.

As he arose, he put on his clacks. The only thing he kept asking himself was "What for?"

He finished getting ready, folding the collar down on his black cotton shirt, and pulling his suspenders over his shoulder. He finished with his suit coat, and shiny black loafers, and off to work he went. He worked at a local gift shoppe, making small trinkets for young lads to play with. Legend had it, at least in his family, that gifts healed a sorrowful heart. His mission was the heal every heart in the world. He would work day in and day out to make things better, if for nothing else it's what his father had done, and his grandfather before him.

Today was no normal day, however. As he walked to the centre trying to get to work, signs kept flashing through his head. He stopped at the bank to deposit his meager earnings, and noticed the tax section. "They took taxes out of my meager pockets?" he thought. "What better way to keep the status quo" was his final thought. As he turned the corner, he saw something that brought a tear to his eye. His gift shop, his home of employment had been shut down. Boards covered the windows, little girls and boys stood outside crying, sobbing uncontrollably to their parents.

"Where's my glass roses going to come from now?" one of them asked. The parents just stood there, shocked, without an answer. What a horrible position to be in, he thought. He had been making gifts and healing hearts his whole life, yet when your child asks you where their toys are going to come from now, and you don't have an answer? Not a parent in the world wants to be in that situation.

He took hold of what was happening. He scanned around to see roughly 50 people standing inconsolable in front of the gift shoppe, looking for answers. In a split second, he had made his decision. He threw a barrel on it's side and stood on it.

"Friends, Countrymen, lend me your ears!" he shouted. They all turned, glaring at whomever had decided to penetrate their silent demonstration.

"You have a voice!" he said. "We must use it. We are the labor here, it is our blood, sweat, and tears that makes this country great! It is our hard work, it is our mind and individuality that brings us opportunities! We do not have to lose our individuality in order to be productive! We can be successful and productive all at the same time. We can offer opportunity AND organization!"

As the words spewed out of his mouth, he could feel the hair on the back of his neck tingle. He could hear the mob growing stronger, their words of agreement getting louder as each minute passed, as each phrased urged them to fight for what it rightfully theirs.

"Individuality makes us human, it makes us real. Why group us all into one? Why simply look at us as nothing more than a statistic, a number that adds to their bottom line moreso than the personality we bring! We deserve more! We demand more! I say, onward to London. We'll march on the House of Commons, and tell them the way it will be. Not the way we'd like it! The way it is! I don't have a Job, I don't have a career, I have a Soul and a Personality, and I intend to keep it!"

Written by Dishmcds

This is an editorial. If you like what you've read, please subscribe to my newspaper. I plan on writing more of these articles, as they are also rather entertaining.