Chaos Theory: Through the Keyhole of Politics and godless men.

🗝️ “The Keyhole” - Part political allegory, part terror of a woeful descent into chaos.

In the Beginning: There was Good and there was Evil.

Two forces which battled for the creation of the world. Both were almost equally matched, but somehow, Good had a greater edge, because it knew empathy. Bad could not comprehend the nature of such a thing - so it was doomed to a losing streak.

Observing from a crumbling tower at the edge of the world, a woman peers through a rusted, well used and cliched keyhole. Beyond it lies the Chamber of Woe, where masked figures debate the fate of nations. Their voices are honeyed and hollow, their robes patchworked from treaties and broken promises. They speak in riddles, each word a spell that reshapes a reality which only they imagine. A reality far removed from the actual lives of the players with whom they practice, laugh at, and manipulate on the chessboards of life.

The woman cannot enter the chamber - she can only watch. The keyhole is her only aperture, and through it she sees the godless ones: those who worship power but not truth, who trade souls for influence, who drain the rivers of meaning to irrigate their empires.

She whispers, “Why do we stand by and watch these horrible puppeteers pull our strings?”

A voice answers from the shadows. It is Justice, the spirit of equality and wisdom, the peacemakers who once lived in the ink of poets and the silence between revolutions.

“Because the keyhole is a mirror,” Justice says. “And we have mistaken watching for power.”

Wisdom weeps, she senses a world suffering from despair, a people needing strength to fan the flame of their awakening. She begins to carve a new key - not to open the chamber, but to unlock the hearts of those who still dream of justice and wisdom. She gathers tears, laughter, and hope, forging a blade of truth sharp enough to cut through the timeless illusion.

Equality raises his fist - And one day soon, he shouts - the tower itself will begin to tremble - not from war, but from a chorus of storytellers who refuse to be spectators.

🗝️ “The impulsive Glimpse that changed everything”.

It started with a glance.

A strange keyhole in an even stranger locked door. A flickering screen left open by mistake. A crack in the wall of power - just wide enough for her to see.

She wasn’t meant to look. She wasn’t meant to know.

But she did.

And in that moment, the world she thought she lived in began to dissolve.

Through the keyhole, I saw them: the godless architects of order, cloaked in law and lit by the glow of stolen futures. They moved like priests, spoke like poets, but their tongues dripped with policy and profit. They traded suffering like currency. They rewrote godly laws. They called it governance.

She watched them decide who would eat, who would vanish, who would be named, and who would be erased.

And she understood: this wasn’t a glitch. It was the design.

She staggered back, but the glimpse had already entered her soul. It rewired her mind. The streets became symbols. The news became incantation. Her own silence felt complicit.

She asked, “Why shall we do?”

The answer came in painful gusts of history's long-suffering cries, in a frenzy of feelings - like a mirror cracking and the pieces stabbing the heart of the world. The answer was infected with too much truth...the agony too real.

We stand by because we are taught to watch, not to act. Because we mistake access for power. Because we are given screens instead of keys.

But the woman was done watching.

She began to write. To speak. To gather others who had espied the same fracture. We are not gods. We are not rulers. But we are witnesses. And that is the beginning of revolt.

The door is still locked. But the keyhole is widening.

And behind it, the architects will tremble - we will not need their weapons of war and destruction. We shall employ our pens and quills - revolution rising from our fingertips.

We shall write our truths for the world to see, to stand and let our voices be heard.

With fingers flying across the pages, she wrote.

🕯️ From Witness to Revolutionary

At first, she was only a woman.

A citizen. A name on a ledger. A shadow in the crowd.

She paid her taxes. She watched the news. She voted - sometimes.

She believed in the architecture of things.

Until the glimpse.

A keyhole. A cracked door. A flicker on a screen.

She leaned in - thinking not of rebellion, but of curiosity.

And the world split.

She saw the architects of empire,

their hands dipped in oil, blood and ink,

signing away forests, futures, faces, ethnicity.

They wore no gods, only logos who thought themselves mighty.

They spoke in metrics, knowing not mercy.

She staggered back, but the glimpse had already entered her.

It nested behind her eyes. It rewrote her silence.

She tried to forget.

Tried to return to the before.

But the before had dissolved.

So she began the rites and rituals of holy war.

She burned her old name in a bowl of salt.

She painted banners from protest flyers and eviction notices.

She painted her eyelids with ash and ink, so even in sleep, she would see.

She walked the streets barefoot, listening to the cracks in the pavement.

She learned to read the graffiti as maps and signposts to meeting places.

She made friends with carrier pigeons, with grandmothers, with ghosts of the unseen and the callously forgotten.

And they began to follow her. Not because she promised salvation -

but because she remembered their grief.

Because she had witnessed evil.

Now, when she speaks, shadows relay messages

Screens flicker to darkness. Doors unlock.

She is no longer a woman.

She is the Witness. The one who saw and did not look away.

The one who names what was hidden.

The one who reminds the world:

“You are not powerless. You are only unpracticed.”

It is time for peace to reign again.

"A luta continua; vitória é certa," . "The struggle continues; victory is certain,".