When the Clown is Chosen

He speaks and the room shifts. Not because he says something true, but because the air around him bends to accommodate his belief. I have watched this for years—this psychic reshaping of the moment. His voice doesn’t carry authority; it creates it, as if sound alone could warp reality.

The President doesn’t just believe he is chosen. He lives as though the world itself was built to prove it.

There is no plan beyond the shape of his need. No policy beyond his hunger. No nation beyond the mirror. And yet, somehow, everything flows toward him, as if the gravitational pull of his wanting bends the trajectory of institutions, laws, and history. We say the system matters, that the Constitution matters, but he has proved something darker: the system is only as real as our willingness to enforce it. And his gift, if you can call it that, is to reveal the fragile architecture of our collective good.

I once believed we were living in a country. Now I know we were living in an agreement. And he broke it. Not with weapons, but with narrative.

This is what no one understands: the President is not a strategist. He is a symptom. A rupture made flesh. He doesn’t know what he’s doing in the way generals know, or tyrants know. He moves by instinct, by grievance, by the hunger to be the center of the room. And yet in his incoherence, he has done more than those who plan carefully.

Why? Because he believes.

Not in God, not in country, but in the righteousness of his feelings. And in the age of screens and spectacle, that is enough. You do not have to be right—you only have to perform rightness. You do not have to serve—you only have to suffer publicly. And he suffers so loudly, so dramatically, that the crowd believes him.

He is the victim, always. And that makes him the hero.

He believes he is chosen because the battle is personal. Every attack, every scandal, every perceived slight—to him, they aren’t political events. They are affirmations of his centrality in the universe. He doesn’t separate himself from the state; he sees no line between his survival and the nation’s. And in that delusion, his chaos becomes destiny. His enemies become proof. The louder the outrage, the deeper his belief that only he could be at the center of so much noise.

I watch his speeches the way I watch car crashes: with horror and awe. He speaks in fragments, in wounded boasts. He says, "They lied about me," and people cheer, not because they know what he means, but because they recognize the rhythm of revenge. He doesn’t need to be clear. He needs to be injured. And his audience, starved of meaning and choked on irony, gathers around his wounds like worshippers.

He is not the voice of the people. He is the mirror of their rage.

And still—they follow. Not despite his chaos, but because of it. In a world gone mad, he confirms their suspicion that the game was always rigged. That nothing was ever sacred. That cruelty is clarity. And by walking into the temple and lighting the scrolls on fire, he frees them from the burden of pretending to care.

Do you understand what that means?

He is not breaking the world. He is revealing it.

They said he was a clown. But clowns are masks. He is unmasked. He is the raw nerve. The tantrum. The man who never grew past the mirror stage. His power is not that he hides. His power is that he exposes.

And what he exposes is this: there are no adults in the room. Just more mirrors. More shadows. More people afraid to speak the truth because they fear he already owns it.

He speaks of greatness, but knows only grievance. He invokes America, but only as an extension of his name. The flags, the rallies, the chants—they are not about country. They are about himself as country. And his followers are not citizens. They are believers. They have burned their maps and replaced them with his face.

In his presence, I feel unmoored. Because to look at him is to see a man untethered from the collective good—a man who does not believe in we. Only me. And that singularity is terrifying.

Because he doesn’t just rewrite the rules. He acts as though they never existed.

He walks into courtrooms and declares himself the victim. He stands at podiums and insists that only he can save us. From what? From whom? The answer is always shifting, always someone else, always another enemy invented to match the shape of his need.

It would be easier if he were a tyrant in the classical sense. But he isn’t. He is worse. He is a man with no fixed point. No ideology. No loyalty. Only appetite. And yet that appetite has become a movement.

He does not need ideas. He needs enemies.

He does not need truth. He needs loyalty.

He does not need to lead. He needs to consume.

And those around him? They either become part of the story, or they vanish. They echo his lines or get written out of the show. It’s not governance. It’s a television presidency, with plot arcs and cliffhangers and villainous guest stars. But no resolution. Because resolution would mean stopping, and he does not stop. Not because he is brave, but because he is terrified of the silence that follows.

I think he is afraid of being forgotten. Of the stillness that might reveal he is not chosen. That he is not eternal. That his shadow will not stretch forever.

But for now, he is loud. And that loudness fills the room. And the room forgets itself.

He says, "They are coming for me because I fight for you."

But the truth is simpler: They are coming for him because he took everything for himself and called it yours.

And still, they cheer.

I wonder what happens when the cheering stops. When the curtain falls. When the room remembers the real world still exists. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he cares. Or if he’s just chasing the next mirror, the next wound, the next camera.

Because in the end, there is no country in him. Only story. And the story ends only when he says so.

And we’ve let him write it this far.