He stands before the mirror not as a man, but as a myth—wrapped in nostalgia, cloaked in grievance, crowned by fantasy. In his eyes, he is royalty; in reality, he is a beneficiary of violence dressed as virtue.

The Trump supporter stares into the glass and sees a king—draped in ermine, chin raised with pride, golden crown aglow. But behind him, his reflection tells another story. It wears a MAGA cap and a denim jacket stitched with a giant dollar sign—an heir not to merit, but to the unspoken subsidies of whiteness: land theft, redlined mortgages, unchallenged bank loans, and the silent violence of generational exclusion masked as earned success.

In his hand, a crude club—symbol not of defense, but domination. A tool passed down through centuries of forced order, now wielded against the very democracy that once secured his ascent. The mirror does not lie. It only reveals what he dares not say: that his crown is not earned, but imagined; and that his fury is not righteous, but the panic of a fading delusion.

This is the portrait of a movement—one not rooted in truth or tradition, but in terror of equality. Continue reading →