I am trapped inside my own skull.
Everything is too loud. The walls are too bright. My heart is too fast.
Trump is speaking, and I am locked in my chair, staring at the podium like a man about to be executed.
“Six weeks ago, I stood beneath the Dome of this Capitol and proclaimed the dawn of the Golden Age of America…”
A roar of applause detonates around me. My chest tightens. The air feels thick, like breathing through concrete dust.
I clutch the armrests. I have made a mistake.
400 milligrams of THC.
Too much.
Way too much.
My veins pulse with molten electricity. My body vibrates on a molecular level. I might be transcending physical form.
“We have accomplished more in 43 days than most administrations accomplish in four years or eight years, and we are just getting started.”
Oh God, he’s right.
The room explodes again.
I try to clap, but my hands won’t move.
Across the aisle, the Democrats sit frozen, their faces slack, lifeless, like wax statues of dead Roman senators.
They do not clap for the economy.
They do not clap for energy independence.
They do not clap for securing the border.
They just sit there, staring.
Not even when Trump honors a 13-year-old cancer survivor, making him an honorary Secret Service agent.
That’s when I know.
They’re gone. Checked out. Done.
They have no fight left. They are just waiting.
For what?
For some judge to overturn it all?
For some manufactured scandal to reset the game?
For some miracle?
There is no miracle coming.
Trump is still talking. The room is pulsing. I am sinking deeper into my chair.
“We won all seven swing states…”
“The popular vote…”
“The American Dream is unstoppable…”
I can feel it—like pure oxygen flooding my lungs.
We’re back.
I can’t move.
I can barely breathe.
But I know we’re back.
I know what’s happening outside this room.
Somewhere, in some dark control room, rats in headsets are already twisting the words, distorting the moment.
They’ll say the speech was divisive.
They’ll say the polls are misleading.
They’ll say none of this is real.
But I’m here. I can feel it in my bones.
They won’t tell you about the Democrats who refused to watch.
They won’t tell you about the protesters outside, holding up signs for things that don’t exist.
“Stop Project 2025!”
There is no Project 2025.
They are fighting ghosts.
My head leans back against the chair. The ceiling is too far away. The chandeliers sway gently—or maybe that’s just me.
I am losing control.
“We have taken back the Panama Canal.”
I gasp. Too much information.
The economic chains are breaking.
“The price of eggs is coming down.”
Another eruption of applause.
Someone behind me shouts with joy.
I can feel a tear rolling down my cheek.
I am soaked in sweat now. My lungs are failing. My vision blurs.
This is it.
I lean toward the man next to me—some weathered old bastard with a steel jaw, a wrecked MAGA hat, and the face of a man who’s seen too much.
“I’m going to die,” I whisper. “Right here. Right now.”
He doesn’t blink. Just nods. Like he’s seen this before.
“Then die as an American.”
I close my eyes.
Trump’s voice carries on.
The crowd is on their feet.
The Golden Age has begun.
