You ever speak the truth so raw, so close to the bone, that the whole room seems to go quiet? Like someone turned the oxygen down?
I can sit with my family for hours while they tear Donald Trump apart—every insult, every stumble, every orange-tinged soundbite. It’s like a ritual. The rage is rehearsed, the scorn familiar. Trump is the villain in their story. Always has been. Always will be.
But when I steer the conversation toward something more unsettling—something that cuts a little too close to home—like the slow suffocation coming from our government, or the eerie calm around Mark Carney, who hovers in the background like a well-dressed shadow… everything stops. The words don’t land. They evaporate. Eyes glaze. Minds shut.
It’s not resistance. It’s vacancy.
It’s like something takes them away for a moment. They’re there—but not really. Not when you challenge the narrative. Not when you pull at the threads stitched into their worldview. Mentioning Carney is like whispering a name you’re not supposed to know—like breaking some unspoken pact.
That… that’s what scares me.
Mark Carney, the polished prophet of the elite, always smiling like he knows the final page of the book while we’re still stuck in chapter one. They call him a steady hand, a financial savior. But look closer. His fingerprints are all over the quiet chaos—money games, digital leashes, global power plays. He doesn’t light fires—he just watches them burn from a penthouse window, sipping something expensive, telling us it’s all under control.
And no one moves. No one blinks.
Our leaders print money like it’s confetti, while people drown in debt and despair. Housing is a fantasy. Savings are a joke. And the few who do ask questions? They’re painted as paranoid, fringe, dangerous.
Because it’s easier to punch a clown like Trump than it is to stare into the cold, quiet eyes of the ones running the show right here—at home.
And still, the fog hangs thick. Say “Trudeau” and someone might twitch. Say “Carney” and you can hear the hum of mental shutdown. The hypnosis kicks in. The show must go on.
Something is wrong.
Deeply, deliberately wrong.
We are living through a kind of waking coma. Where loved ones look at you like a stranger the moment you name the wrong ghost. Where truth doesn’t just make people uncomfortable—it unplugs them entirely.
And maybe that’s what evil really looks like now. Not a cartoon villain on stage.
But the invisible hand stroking the world into sleep.
Because the most terrifying monster… is the one no one’s willing to admit is real.
