I. The Budget as Revelation
They passed it quietly, as they always do. A vote, a headline, a line-item knife slipped under the ribs of the invisible. Medicaid cuts. Tax breaks for the wealthy. A fiscal document, they call it—as if numbers could mask intent. But this is not a budget. It is a theology.
The theology of decline.
Because in America, we do not confess our cruelty. We budget it. We do not name the people we’ve chosen to abandon. We simply remove the funding and let their death appear natural. A soft vanishing. A bureaucratic euthanasia of the poor.
But make no mistake: this is not about debt. It is not about discipline. The same bill that cuts Medicaid pours gold into the pockets of billionaires. It widens the trench between capital and care—and dares to call it balance.
What we are seeing is not new. It is the continuation of the third path I warned about in The Lie We Refuse to End—the death path.
The path where we refuse to tax the rich, refuse to shrink the empire, and choose instead to let the old, the sick, and the poor quietly die.
But something has shifted.
This is no longer the path we drift toward.
It is the path we now legislate.
II. The Empire’s Old Trick: Denial by Demographic Design
Every empire tells a story about itself. Rome spoke of glory. Britain spoke of order. America speaks of freedom. But when the skin of myth is peeled back, the wound is always the same: a hunger for labor and a fear of death.
America is aging. This is not a partisan opinion or a doomsday prediction—it is math. Fewer babies, longer lives, a shrinking base to carry a growing weight. The pyramid has inverted. The system was never built for this.
Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid—all of it runs on a simple assumption: there will always be more young than old, more workers than retirees, more hope than memory. That assumption has collapsed.
But we do not say that out loud. We dare not. Because to admit it would demand maturity. It would demand that the empire become honest about its limits. And empires are never honest.
So we pretend.
We pretend that the debt crisis is a policy failure, not a demographic reckoning. We pretend that cutting benefits will restore balance, when it only accelerates collapse. We pretend that military spending has nothing to do with the shortfall, that forever wars are separate from domestic decline.
And worst of all, we pretend that youth can be summoned—not through birth, not through care—but through borders wide enough to exploit, and narrow enough to blame.
This is the old trick: to speak of scarcity while hoarding abundance. To name the problem as the poor, while shielding the rich. To manufacture crisis where there is simply natural consequence.
Despair lowers birth rates. Hopelessness breaks nations. And America is a society that no longer believes in the future, but refuses to admit it.
So it takes from the old. And fears the young.
And calls that strategy.
III. The Collapse Will Be Televised—But Misunderstood
When Rome collapsed, the libraries burned. But not in a single day. Not with a single flame. Collapse is rarely a spectacle at first. It is misfiled. Misnamed. Treated as a temporary disruption. A budget delay. A culture war. A partisan divide.
But what comes after empire is not always revolution. Sometimes it is simply confusion.
And in our age, confusion is content.
We no longer live in the transition from media to internet. We live inside the internet now. It has become the sky. The air. The light by which we see everything. And it is dim.
The algorithm governs perception. Rage is a business model. Narrative is a weapon. And attention is the only currency that still holds value. So the collapse will be televised, yes—but through fractured mirrors. Through edits, memes, monologues, and monetized pain.
The hospital closes in a rural town—but the screen blames migrants. The teacher leaves the profession—but the podcast blames woke ideology. The Medicaid office shutters—but the YouTuber points to communists in California.
The empire dies—but its ghost remains online, defending itself with the fury of a thousand comment sections.
We are no longer governed by truth. We are governed by narrative momentum. A collapsing nation held together by the dopamine cycles of people too numb to feel the knife.
The old media gave us slogans. The new media gives us sides.
And as long as we are fighting each other, we cannot see that the walls are crumbling.
Not in silence. But in spectacle.
IV. The Category That Enables Cruelty
No one wakes up wanting to be cruel. Not even the powerful.
Cruelty, in its raw form, is too naked. Too obvious. So it must be dressed. Justified. Named.
And in America, that name is “illegal migrant.”
It is not a person. It is not a life. It is a category. A rhetorical device. A container into which we can pour all our unease, all our contradictions, all our policies that would otherwise demand apology.
We do not cut Medicaid for the poor. We cut it for the “illegals.”We do not abandon working families. We defend our borders.We do not deny health care to citizens. We cleanse the system.
And with a single label, we erase the face. And when you erase the face, you erase the need for mercy.
This is the oldest trick in the architecture of cruelty: invent a category, dehumanize it, criminalize it, and then strip it of rights while pretending you’ve made a moral choice.
The truth, of course, is simpler. The majority of those losing Medicaid are citizens—many of them poor, rural, white, and Republican. They are not migrants. They are not criminals. They are simply disposable in a system that has grown tired of pretending to care.
But the category lives on.
Because it serves. It comforts the conscience of the man at the table who knows what he’s doing is wrong. It gives him language to blunt the blade in his hand.
“If they’re illegal, they don’t deserve it.”
And so the violence is not seen as violence. It is seen as order. As law. As justice.
The face is gone. The body is blurred. The scream is muted.
And the knife slips in, clean.
V. The Addict at the Table
He knows it’s wrong.
The man at the table, the policymaker, the donor, the billionaire—he knows. You can see it in the flicker behind the eyes, the brief pause before the talking point. He is not a monster. He is simply an addict.
And his drug is the next tax cut.
He wants it like a hit. Not for survival—but for the high. The second yacht, the fifth house, the obscene vacation, the launch of a vanity space company, the hush-hush orgy in the Bahamas. And like any addict, he needs justification.
Because somewhere in him, the conscience remains. Somewhere in him, a voice whispers: this will hurt people.
So he quiets the voice. He turns the poor into enemies. He calls Medicaid socialism. He calls immigrants criminals. He turns mercy into theft and turns himself into the victim.
That is the genius of the modern American elite: they have turned exploitation into self-defense.
They are not robbing the poor. They are protecting themselves from tyranny.They are not evading taxes. They are escaping persecution.They are not addicts. They are survivors.
The lie is not even elegant. But it doesn’t need to be. In an age of attention deficits and moral exhaustion, all it needs is repetition.
And in that repetition, the truth dies.
The man at the table knows. But he needs to believe he is good. So he crafts a world in which goodness looks like wealth, and theft looks like freedom, and the people dying in emergency rooms without insurance are simply the cost of liberty.
He is not evil.
He is just high.
And in this country, we have decided that addiction to power is more acceptable than compassion for the weak.
VI. The Useful Victim: Rural America’s Loyal Suffering
The cruelest part of this story is not the betrayal. It is the loyalty.
The budget that guts Medicaid will devastate rural communities—those very counties that send their votes, year after year, to the men holding the knife. It is their clinics that will close. Their hospitals that will vanish. Their children who will grow up coughing in trailer parks, uninsured, unexamined, unseen.
And still—they will vote red.
Not because they are stupid. But because they have been narrated into obedience.
They are told the story of their own decline—and handed a villain to hate.
It’s not the billionaire who closed your factory.It’s not the hedge fund that bought your water.It’s not the politician who stripped your benefits.No. It’s the migrant. The coastal elite. The librarian.
The narrative is genius in its cruelty. It weaponizes pain. It directs rage away from the structure and toward the scapegoat. It makes collapse feel like betrayal—by someone else.
And in that betrayal, the empire finds its most loyal foot soldiers.
Rural America is not the enemy. It is the offering. It is the bone thrown to the dogs of capital. A place that once believed in work, in dignity, in community—now hollowed out and reprogrammed to cheer for its own destruction.
They do not see the Medicaid cuts as a punishment. They see them as proof. Proof that the weak are being purged. That order is being restored. That finally, someone is doing something about the rot.
They do not see that they are the rot, in the eyes of the very men they vote for.
And when they die, it will be called freedom.
And when they mourn, it will be called patriotism.
And when they rise again in anger, it will be called democracy.
But it is none of these.
It is the quiet, useful suffering of people who were never meant to be saved—only used.
VII. Enslavement by Silence
To enslave a people in the twenty-first century, you do not need chains. You only need silence.
Not theirs—yours.
You need the nation to stop seeing them. To stop naming them. To stop imagining their faces. You need them to become a shadow population—present, but unacknowledged. Essential, but untouchable. Human, but without a voice.
This is what has happened to the undocumented.
They wash the dishes. They pick the crops. They lay the concrete beneath luxury towers they will never enter. And they live in fear—of arrest, of deportation, of simply being seen.
The goal is not removal. It is domination. And domination requires invisibility.
Trump did not deport dramatically more than Obama. What changed was the atmosphere—the climate of terror. The sense that any day could be your last, that your child’s school might become a raid site, that speaking up might mean vanishing.
And in that fear, a new kind of slavery is born.
Because when people cannot show their face, they can be worked to the bone without complaint. They will not organize. They will not unionize. They will not strike. They will thank you for the abuse, just to be allowed to stay.
That is the logic.
You dehumanize them in public rhetoric.You criminalize them in law.You terrorize them with unpredictability.And then you exploit them—quietly, endlessly, legally.
This is why the category “illegal” is so important. It strips a person of protection. It tells the story that they do not belong. It makes their pain seem earned. And once pain is earned, it can be ignored.
The face is erased. The voice is silenced. The body is made useful.
And the rest of us pretend not to see.
VIII. The Lie Beneath the Victimhood
There is no tyranny more seductive than the tyranny of the self-proclaimed victim.
In today’s empire, the billionaire is the most coddled citizen alive—and yet he cries persecution. He hoards wealth, evades taxes, bends laws, buys governments, and still he says: they’re coming for me.
This is the inversion that defines our age: the powerful frame themselves as the oppressed. And in doing so, they justify anything.
Why should they pay taxes? They’re the real victims.Why should they fund healthcare? They built this country.Why should they answer to the poor? The poor are lazy.Why should they surrender anything? They’ve already given too much.
And so the billionaire becomes a martyr. He is no longer a citizen with responsibilities—he is a symbol of threatened greatness. And anyone who questions him is cast as a thief, a tyrant, a resentful nobody who wants to take what he earned.
But what was earned?
Was the inheritance earned? The buyback? The bailout? The offshore tax haven? The lobbying loophole?
No. What was earned was the story. The illusion. The mask that turned the emperor into the prisoner.
This is the lie beneath the victimhood: that power is under attack. That domination is being threatened by compassion. That asking the rich to care is the same as asking them to die.
And in this logic, any act of empathy becomes an assault.
Feed the hungry? That’s theft.House the poor? That’s socialism.Treat a migrant as human? That’s treason.
They do not hate compassion because it is weak.
They hate it because it reveals the truth: that they are not gods, not geniuses, not chosen—they are just people. And people can be asked to care. People can be called to serve. People can be wrong.
And that is the one identity they refuse.
They would rather be kings in exile than equals in a just world.
They would rather burn the village than share the table.
And so they lie.
And we listen.
IX. Witness Over Despair
The temptation is always the same.
To look at the cruelty, the lies, the inverted morality—and say, this country is lost.To look at the voters cheering their own dispossession, the billionaires weeping as martyrs, the sick left to die without coverage—and say, there is no saving this.To look at the empire collapsing not with honesty, but with laughter—and say, let it burn.
But that is not witness.
That is surrender.
Because what we are seeing is not just American decline. It is the human condition in late costume. The predator and the prey. The mask and the mirror. The desperate claw for meaning in a system that rewards only profit.
This is not new.
What is new is how visible it has become. The curtains have fallen. The narrative machine stutters. And in the silence, something older, truer, begins to whisper.
We do not need everyone to wake up.
But we need enough.
Enough to see the migrant not as a threat, but as a brother.Enough to see the billionaire not as a savior, but as a neighbor in need of recovery.Enough to see the system not as cursed, but as hollow—and ready to be reimagined.
And yes, that includes the billionaire.
Because he, too, walks. Breathes. Ages. He, too, nurses a wound too large for wealth to fill. He, too, has a voice that could someday say: enough.
No one is evil.
There is only sleep.
And there is only the great, slow call to wake.
Not with weapons. Not with hashtags. But with presence.
This is the work: to witness clearly, without flinching. To see the lie, name it, and refuse to join its chorus. To love the ones who have forgotten they are human—and remind them, by remaining one yourself.
X. Final Sentence
We are not evil—we are asleep.But every cruelty requires a story.And every awakening begins when we dare to name the lie.
—Elias WinterAuthor of Language Matters, a space for reflection on language, power, and decline.
