Fragmented Futures: A Love Letter to Utopia

Dear possibility,
I keep finding pieces of you
in unexpected places:
community gardens,
mutual aid networks,
free libraries on street corners.

You persist in fragments,
like shattered mirror shards
reflecting better tomorrows —
each piece showing
what could be,
what must be.

I’ve seen you hiding
in occupied spaces,
in collective kitchens,
in solidarity strikes,
in hands held up
against police lines.

They tried to bury you
under concrete and profit,
tried to convince us
you were childish fantasy,
naive dream,
dangerous delusion.

But you keep growing
through sidewalk cracks,
keep flowering
in abandoned lots,
keep breathing
in tear gas clouds.

I catch glimpses of you
in tent cities’ communes,
in hacked technologies,
in shared medicines,
in underground railways
of modern resistance.

You whisper still
through radio static:
“Another world is possible,
not just possible —
it’s already being born
in the shell of the old.”

Dear utopia,
they called you dead
but I’ve seen your pulse
in collective heartbeats,
felt your breath
in crowd songs.

You live in pieces now,
scattered but gathering:
each act of kindness
a building block,
each shared meal
a cornerstone.

We’re collecting you,
fragment by fragment,
assembling tomorrow
from today’s broken parts —
a mosaic future
made of hope and work.

Love always,
The ones who still believe
(and those who act
as if they do)

P.S. Save a place for us
in your possible world.