Stones

Stones roll, silent at first, gaining sound only once momentum is no longer deniable. They do not fly by the will of the hand, but by the will of the unseen. Each one is flung with purpose, not in chaos but in choreographed fury. They strike with the weight of premeditated blame, carefully aimed by architects of the invisible.

In this world, the stones are truths; twisted, reshaped, rebranded. Cast not by the citizens, but by those who assume control of the thrown. The hand disappears, and yet the damage remains. The shattered window becomes a justification. The bleeding man becomes an enemy. The dissenting voice becomes a threat to stability.

We are taught to forget the thrower.

A government no longer governs. It curates perception. It polishes the lie until it glimmers brighter than truth. And in doing so, it asks us to swallow the impossible: That war is peace. That obedience is freedom. That surveillance is safety. That silence is virtue.

And we do.

Because they do not ask for our belief. They ask for our exhaustion. An exhausted mind will nod before it questions. It will comply before it understands. In time, it will thank its captor for the chains, believing them to be adornments of patriotism.

Each stone thrown becomes a precedent, each precedent a pillar of policy. Protest becomes terrorism. Questioning becomes sedition. The language itself begins to bleed, words stripped of their flesh, leaving only the bones of propaganda.

Now we chant what we once challenged.

We watch as rights are bartered for the illusion of calm. We cheer for cages if they’re painted in the colors of security. We embrace the noose if it whispers the right slogans.

And all the while, the throwers remain cloaked, robed in titles, smiling from podiums, hiding behind committee names no one voted for.

They don’t fear the truth. They don’t need to. They’ve taught us to fear each other instead. To throw our own stones at neighbors while they, the true castors, retreat into the fog of sanctioned lies.

In this Orwellian dawn, it is not the darkness we should fear, but the blinding light of state-approved vision. A light so bright, it erases everything it touches.

Everything but the throwers.

They planned the flood
before the rain.

Every panic.
Every push.
Every “spontaneous” spark.

Designed.
Mapped.
Monetized.

You just showed up on cue.

No need for bullets
when outrage trends.
No need for chains
when division sells.

Each headline, a breadcrumb.
Each protest, a rehearsal.
Each villain, pre-cast.

And you?
You’re in the chorus.
Loud. Angry.
Right on time.

They gave you enemies
with first names.
Not addresses.
Not bank accounts.

Just faces.
Flawed, loud, disposable.
Burn them for ratings.
Blame them for everything.

But never follow the wire.
Never ask who wrote the script.

The stage is blood red.
The lights are gold.
And the curtains, woven
from your search history.

They clap for you from above.
Not because you’re right
but because you’re useful.

You think this is chaos.
It’s not.
It’s the overture.

Coordinated.
Composed.
Conducted.

The stone was never thrown in rage.
It was placed.
It was passed.
It was named “justice” before it fell.

And when it hit,
you cheered.

You still don’t see the hands, do you?
Only the shadows they cast.

That’s the trick.
The art.
The grand design.

Not to hide the lie
but to convince you
you invented it.

Shhh.

They’re about to raise the curtain again.
You’re going to love Act II.