You stand there with a blank stare in your eyes, a ghost of the power you once held. No one is listening anymore. No one cares to hear the cry of the one who cried wolf too many times. The room you built with your voice has become a tomb, and every echo only reminds you of how empty it’s grown.
The more you walk through life, the less you feel alive. You play chicken with your own reflection, testing how much more you can take before something inside you snaps. You’re stuck in your old walls, still knocking on old doors that will never open. Every ill word you’ve spoken comes crashing down on you, one by one by one. This is karma—not a curse, but a mirror held to your mouth, fogging with every breath you take.
Those who live in glass houses should never throw rocks, but you never stopped hurling them. And now, you don’t even dare look into the mirror. The truth hurts. You lost all your power over the things you never had power over to begin with. All those who were once enslaved to your promises have woken up. They saw your empire for what it was—faded hope and broken oaths, a castle built on shifting sand.
Up there in the tree like a monkey, I watch from afar. I watch the distance between where you were and where you’ve slid. This isn’t ego speaking; this is you walking in the shoes of the people you once walked over. Tell me, how does it feel down there? How does it feel to have everything crumble beneath your feet? Uncomfortable, isn’t it?
When you take what is not yours, you lose what you never had. When you speak but cannot act, the words echo back, revealing what you lack. Respect is never taken; it’s earned when no one is watching—when the blinds are closed and it’s just you in an empty room. Even the walls are watching.
It is what you carry in your heart, unspoken, that the world can see. It’s the thoughts you think are secret that ripple outward and take shape in your life. The know-it-all in the room knows nothing at all. Just because you speak the loudest does not make you wise.
It’s the one in the corner, quiet and steady, who has learned the patterns and can see the next move. It’s the one who plays chess instead of checkers, the one who understands that change—even the smallest change—is still change. It’s the one who breathes through the storm and keeps going. It’s the one who sees without speaking, hears before talking, listens when there is nothing to say.
You want to sit on the throne, but you don’t want to earn the reward. You want something for nothing, without ever doing the work. But the crowd has shifted. The masks have fallen. We see you. And now, you’re just another face in the crowd. Sit down.
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