The Burning Rage Within

The destruction did not come in an explosion but as a quiet fire, taking root where no one was watching.

They fed it with fear—of those who spoke differently, lived differently, loved differently. They fanned it with resentment, convinced that what they had lost had been stolen, not squandered. They built it themselves, stone by stone, word by word, until it swallowed everything they once claimed to protect.

They howled that their world was being destroyed, never realizing they were the ones holding the torch.

The fire was not set by outsiders. It was born from within—kindled by their refusal to accept a world they could no longer mold in their image, sustained by their need to blame anyone but themselves.

And so they placed their faith in those who fed the fire, who promised to restore what was never truly theirs. They followed, blind to the crumbling ground beneath them. Blind to the truth that by the time they recognized the fire for what it was, it had already consumed them.