Dancing Puppets

The streets were alive with the sound of voices, a chaotic chorus of slogans and chants that none of the participants truly understood. They marched in perfect discord, a mass of bodies moving like a great, sluggish beast with no mind of its own, driven forward by forces it could not see. Placards were hoisted high, scrawled with words that had been handed to them, slogans engineered by those who knew the power of repetition over reason. Their faces were flushed with fervor, though none could quite articulate what, exactly, they were fighting for.

These were the products of a system designed to fail them—a hollow education that had filled their heads with noise but never taught them how to think. They mistook emotion for wisdom, outrage for understanding. They had been told who to hate, what to fear, when to kneel, and when to raise their fists. And so they obeyed, puppets dancing on invisible strings.

Among them, the true architects of their rage watched from the shadows. The powerful, the untouchable, the ones who pulled the levers of society with careful precision. They had crafted these mobs with meticulous care, feeding them just enough information to keep them angry but never enough to make them dangerous. These marchers were not warriors; they were fodder, bodies to throw at an enemy of the week, only to be discarded when their usefulness ran out.

And it would run out. One day, the slogans would change, the orders would shift, and these zealots would be left behind, wondering why the world had moved on without them. But for now, they shouted, they raged, they burned. They mistook their slavery for purpose. They believed they were changing the world.

The real power? It remained exactly where it had always been—far above them, untouched, amused, and ever in control.