Liberal protests are a place where all the life losers can congregate to blame the latest “bogeyman” on all their failures, bitterness, and rage.
If they really wanted to know what the problem is in their miserable lives, they should just stay home and look in the mirror.
They come in droves, shuffling through the dimly lit streets like wraiths seeking vengeance. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and stale despair, their voices a cacophony of shrieks and wails, echoing like the cries of the forsaken. The protest has begun—a grotesque festival of rage, where the miserable convene in their shared hatred, desperately searching for a scapegoat to carry the unbearable weight of their failures.
They hold signs with shaking hands, their fingers gnarled by the festering resentment that pulses through their veins. They scream at the sky, howling curses at faceless enemies, at invisible demons conjured from their own delusions. The world is against them, they insist. The system is to blame. The rich. The powerful. The shadows lurking in the corridors of influence. Yet, beneath the masks of fury, behind the banners dripping with half-baked slogans, there lies a truth they dare not speak—one that festers in their souls like an unholy parasite.
The real enemy is waiting for them at home, lurking in the silvered glass of their own mirrors. It watches them, mockingly, as they trudge through their existence, eternally dissatisfied, perpetually enraged. But they cannot face it. To do so would be to acknowledge the horror: that their suffering is not the result of some grand, malevolent force, but of their own choices, their own weakness, their own rot.
So they march on, desperate to drown out the whispers in their minds, to smother the realization that gnaws at the edges of their sanity. They demand justice, but their definition of justice is little more than a burning pyre to warm their cold, empty hearts. They call for vengeance, but their enemy is a phantom, an ever-shifting target that allows them to evade the only confrontation that matters—the one with themselves.
As the night deepens, their fury does not subside. It festers. It spreads. Their numbers grow, drawing more lost souls into the abyss. And though they claim to fight for change, for revolution, for a better world, they are merely the damned, cursed to wander forever in the shadows of their own making.
They do not seek answers.
They seek to scream into the void, and for the void to scream back.
About the Author
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