Margin
of Doubt

17%. That's the percentage of chance that a God exists. Kinda strange though. If you're an atheist, it doesn't make you feel too at ease. Even a slightly higher number would make you feel better. There's just something about that 17% that feels off.

I can almost see God peering from the 16 positive numbers before. Then I see its infinite eyes scrolling backwards through the negatives to a silent oblivion.

Their eyes had followed me through the TV screen, the voices of a thousand clones inside the space between my ears.

Flipping the shit in the other direction gives you 83 reasons to keep looking.

The void is a densely layered jungle underneath a canopy of longing. Questions of meaning fall like summer rain into the universe’s oil drum, slowly drifting under.

If you spend too much time in this stretch, you will go under.

But I'm looking at you 17%. You got me thinking. And just like that, I'm unsure of one more thing.

The Madness of Crowds

Your grandparents never should have been allowed on the Internet.

Cruel? Maybe. But the evidence is overwhelming. Nearly half of Donald Trump’s Twitter followers were bots. Fake accounts. Manufactured noise.

And yet, people followed.

That’s the thing about humans. We’re wired to trust momentum. The more something appears popular, the more it becomes popular. It didn’t matter that the Trump wave was artificially inflated. Enough people saw the noise and mistook it for a signal.

Worse, this wasn’t just some organic mess. It was calculated. Trump’s own team pushed the hype, yes, but so did the Democratic establishment. Through a strategy they called Pied Piper, they deliberately elevated fringe candidates like Trump, thinking it would make Hillary Clinton look more reasonable by comparison.

But the joke was on them.

What started as a puppet show became a stampede. The fake movement metastasized into a real one. The crowd roared. The machines amplified. Millions fell in line, especially those too trusting or too unfamiliar with the new rules of the information age.

It was always a circus. The clowns just took over the tent.

Erasure

Can you hear that noise? Can you hear those screams? Underneath you is a burial ground, littered with the bones of natives. Europeans flooded this land, slaughtering them as though their lives meant nothing. Spanish colonizers hung the natives by thirteen in honor of their redeemer and his twelve apostles. To them, these ‘savages’ had to be purged. They deserved to die.

Can you see the pictures? The babies with their limbs blown off. The bodies of innocents buried in rubble. Killed because those in power wanted a religious ethnostate, one beyond challenge. They wanted to cleanse the land and take what wasn’t already stolen. Once, you could watch it all live on TikTok, but now the people in charge don’t want you to see the atrocities. Too much blowback.

Look up. Do you see the lights? Do you see the lasers raining down hellfire? Every digital display has been turned into a propaganda screen, demanding we accept our fate and perish. To them, we are just a primitive species to be wiped out. The Earth is theirs to exploit until it’s gone. And then they’ll move on to the next one. Lucky for them, they got here before we used it up ourselves.

Genocide has always been the wrath of the powerful. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.

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