Revolutionaries start off as quacks. As the word spreads and the powers fear, they throw the heretic tag out. The speaker might not ever see their work realized. We are all still waiting for the greats. Decades and centuries fade into the rearview mirror of memory.
They fear not.
If lucky. The spark hits some dry kindling. Young minds yearning for a change. Looking and searching for the meaning of everything. The crackle of the flames and the old ways begin to make more sound. Does a burning tree make a noise? It cries out but knows its fall will foster new growth. To revive the forest, the land is scorched.
We are not a forest, that is what they want you to believe. We are nothing more than a manicured park. Pretty to look at but of no intrinsic value. The fire serves as the guiding beacon. The lighthouse through the maelstrom. Guiding to the safe shore. Navigating amnesia.
The revolutionary knows that waking a sleeping giant is a task that one does not complete easily. Find the light and nurture it. Protect it, keep it out of sight until it is ready. The free-thinking mind is the most dangerous weapon. Foster the flame, and distribute it widely like the tree sends its seeds.