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Fight the Demons

Something is happening in the streets of Downtown Los Angeles. Behind the smokescreens of patriotism and “law and order,” the MAGA-driven ICE machine—led by Trump and his racist enablers—is carrying out targeted ICE raids meant to terrorize immigrant communities, silence resistance, and remind us that their version of America has no room for those who live and love freely in California.

But we’re not afraid.

In a time when fear is being used as a weapon, choosing joy is an act of rebellion. I’ve been staying grounded—working, paying my bills, driving through the city with my dog in the back seat, and letting the music of artists like Belinda and Marina keep my spirit high. I’m choosing art over fear, creation over destruction, and celebration over despair. Because writing about what’s happening is resistance. Refusing to let them control our joy is resistance. This is my reflection from within the storm.

These aren’t isolated incidents—they’re coordinated acts of aggression, meant to spread fear like wildfire. They want us to be quiet. They want us to be small. Republicans hate and target California because we don’t flinch. Because we protect each other. Because we dare to love in the open. When I put on ‘Indomita’ or ‘Princess of Power,’ I’m not just vibing—I’m reclaiming my peace. I’m saying, ‘You won’t take this from me. I'm saying FUCK YOU TRUMP, NOT TODAY OR EVER SATAN. While they try to bring us down we refuse and we instead elevate higher. We give our energy to celebrating our life. They want us to be too tired, too numb to care. But I’ve got words, and I’m going to use them. We are not afraid. We are not backing down. We are dancing, loving, writing—and that terrifies the hateful trump regimen.

I’ll be honest—some mornings I wake up furious. Furious at the raids. Furious at the News. Furious that my community has to live with the threat of being ripped apart. But instead of letting that rage eat me alive, I’ve started turning it into fuel.

I get up, I go to work, and I handle my responsibilities—not because the system deserves it, but because I refuse to be broken. I pay my phone bill so I can keep my voice loud. I make sure I’m connected, so I can keep calling out the hypocrisy, the cruelty, the manipulation. I stay on the grid so I can stay in the fight.

They want us offline, off the streets, out of sight. ……They can flood our streets with fear………. We’re not giving our energy to the chaos………..,

Read full article on my website link below 👇

- Jonathan Mqz.

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During the full moon in May, this is how it unfolds.

We’ve all seen it—the glamorous influencer on screen, fingers flying across a keyboard, serving outfits, pouring out wisdom that changes lives. It’s magnetic. For years, that image whispered to me: *“You could do this too.”* But between the flicker of inspiration and the first blank page stood a wall: anxiety’s relentless “what ifs,” ADHD’s carnival of distractions, and a decade of societal storms that left me—and so many of us—feeling cynical.

Let’s be real. The last ten years haven’t been kind. Politics became a battleground, ethical lines in business blurred, and the American Dream started to feel like a rigged game. I navigated it all cautiously—opting for community college and certificates over debt, clinging to frugality like a life raft. Yet here I am, daring to want more: stability, freedom, a mind not haunted by “what’s next.” Is it selfish to dream bigger in a world that feels fractured? Maybe. But what if hunger isn’t ingratitude? What if it’s the spark to rebuild?

This blog is my rebellion against despair. Instead of adding to the noise, I’m carving space for light—starting with a couple overlooked gifts that keep me hopeful. Because even in the echo chambers, a single honest voice can shift the air. Let’s begin.

My 20s? Let’s call them the “Great Disillusionment.” That wide-eyed kid who once mapped out grand futures—filmmaker, tv executive, politician or whatever *felt* like freedom—slowly dimmed. Reality hit like a rogue boss battle: the confidence I’d worn like armor? Turns out, it was stitched together with childhood naivety. And that existential dread I’d carried since I first understood mortality? It wasn’t just a shadow anymore—it was the wallpaper of my adulthood.

Growing up, “What do you want to be?” wasn’t small talk to me. It was a cosmic puzzle I turned over for years. I craved work that felt like play, purpose that didn’t pinch. But without a map, I wandered—into jobs that paid bills but starved my spirit. So I escaped. Enter: Nintendo’s neon-lit worlds. After shifts spent counting minutes, I’d collapse onto the couch, Switch in hand, and let Hyrule heal me. *Breath of the Wild* wasn’t just a game; it was therapy. Roaming pixelated meadows, solving shrines, pretending I wasn’t just avoiding my own unresolved quests.

Here’s the twist: I’m a terrible gamer. When Lynels attack or puzzles taunt, my palms sweat. I quit for weeks, months, until courage (or boredom) drags me back. Yet, in those frazzled pauses, I’d fantasize: *Could this be more?* Not just survival, but a lifeline—streaming, creating, turning joy into currency. A pipe dream? Maybe. But isn’t that how all revolutions start?. Still, I return to the heart of it: Does joy *need* justification? Those nights laughing with Animal Crossing villagers, or fist-pumping a hard-won Zelda dungeon—they kept me tethered when the “real world” frayed. Maybe community isn’t in grand gestures, but in shared obsessions over racing games and Luigi’s latest antic. Perhaps meaning isn’t a destination, but rather the spark we nurture by valuing the small moments that might seem like a waste of time.

So here’s my confession: I don’t have answers. But I’m done dismissing the things that keep me alive even if it was in the matrix.

Let’s name the villain here: late-stage capitalism, with its cheat codes rigged against us. At 30, I’m not leveling up in life or parenthood—I’m grinding as a security guard like Link in Hyrule fields just to afford kibble for my cats. Let that sink in. In a “prosperous” society, my wins are measured in *pet food stability*. The math isn’t mathing. They told us, “Work hard, play by the rules,” but forgot to mention the rules keep changing. Now, the same system gaslights us into accepting scraps as feasts, marketing grit as enlightenment. *“Lower your expectations!* *Isn’t burnout chic?”*

I rage at the absurdity: a decade of spinning my wheels, watching the dream of security morph into a dystopian side quest. Why *should* I apologize for finding family in pets instead of children? My pets aren’t “placeholders”—they’re my companions in resistance. Loving them fiercely isn’t a compromise; it’s a manifesto. If the economy won’t let me nurture a human child without drowning in guilt (or debt), I’ll pour that love into creatures who won't be affected about my credit score. And let’s dismantle the shame. So what if my “family” has whiskers. This isn’t failure—it’s adaptation. Survival mode isn’t a flaw; it’s the badge of a generation forced to play life on hard mode. We’re the architects of new definitions: *family*, *success*, *being enough*.

So here’s my rebellion: I refuse to grieve not being able to afford children. The system may be broken, but my joy isn’t. Next time you see me teaching my cat to ride a scooter instead of browsing baby names, know this—it’s not failure. It’s practice for the bigger fight if the economy ever allows it. Now they want us to submit our own children to uncertain social economic hardships. Corrupt elected officials wish to ruin the economy to make us so desperate to accept to have children in exchange of a one time 5 thousand payment while child care is over 10k a year. The audacity of the people put in places to improve our live is straight out the villains in the video games I play.

As I grapple with my own despair, I’m embarking on my journey as a writer, here is a new blog entry. My goal? To expand my horizons and explore a wide range of topics that inspire and intrigue. I dream of creating content that not only captivates but also resonates with readers, bringing them joy and entertainment. Join me on this adventure as I strive to craft stories and insights that truly matter!

[documentme]

Painter and Model (1953), John Minton

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Living in the times of covid in California. Los Angeles is ruled by the unhoused when the sun hides at night. Hardly getting by, but life is great.

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Living in a new city in california this 2022 is going lovely.

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Spring of 2022

This year, Victor and I flew to Jalisco to visit my father. We like to visit him every time we have a chance, traveling to Jalisco is fun, every time we go to Jalisco we make a stop at Puerto Vallarta and we have fun at the beach with the gays. It’s a privilege to have the opportunity to pretend there are not wars going on, and to not have my mind in treat the of economic colapse that is basically everything that is being talked about in the news. To be able to forget of the frustration of having governments who sign deals to go in a green economy but keeps moving forward hiking fossil fuels manufacturing. This are strange times to be alive, because, we have conservative white supremacist who tried to overthrow the usa government and we just have to continue with our life as if nothing happened. I am living in a modern industrial revolution and work unionization movement, mostly triggered by the fact most adults can not afford a home. The world is upside down, I am afraid things have been corrupted beyond repaired, lets hope i am wrong.

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I rather be dead.

A depressing time.

It 2021 and my late 20’s will arrive.

I don’t feel exited about life.

I just want to die.

Depression.

I feel I am not prepared to do jobs that pay enough, I don’t feel good enough for anything. I feel like I am a flop.

The American Dream is dead at least in California.

The way the situation is in this country some time’s has me feeling like if everything when wrong and this country failed I feel a little satisfied. I feel lied to by this country full of false propaganda about its reality. This country wants you slaved to a debt system. I am not exited about the future and I can’t stop seeing suicide when I close my eyes before I go to sleep at night. I feel like a complete failure. I genuinely wonder why I even exist. Dead truly feels like the only positive outcome because being alive doesn’t sound exiting to me anymore. Being around happy people is such a drag because I don’t feel like putting on a mask to fit in to a positive environment, because I don’t feel happy. I am just a waste of human potential. A score.

I am angry that I spend so many years on my life on an education system that fail to properly prepare me to do jobs. I don’t know what I am going to do with my life. All I can think about is this yearning that I want my dead to be quick and spontaneous. What is the point of staying around if I am just burden.

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June of 2020

The first short, of the many I have done and of the many I will do.

Hot summer night, loud Venice Blvd, living my vida.

About my self

I am gay

I love making art

I am from California

This photo was taken in Beverly Hills.

Maybe something will come out of this.

A Journey.

A life of ascension.

Things I can’t mention.