Blueprint Of Illusion: The Lie You Chose
By His Darkness, The Architect
How amusing… how pitifully predictable.
In a world cloaked in illusion, you cling to it, like sheep to a flame, dazzled by shadows on a wall.
You worship your captors and smile through your shackles,
oblivious to the bars you polish with pride.
You walk about with glass in your palms, enchanted by its lights,
as if the lies it spills were scripture.
You devour fiction, label it truth, and scoff at those who dare challenge your illusion.
You are not merely blind…
You are willfully so.
You are being lied to.
And not just by the world I have designed.
No.
You are a willing participant in your defilement.
The irony is exquisite.
You invite the lie in.
You cradle it.
Nurture it.
You share it, defend it, and call it enlightenment.
There is no need for my Blueprint to enslave you.
You built your own.
You are fed not on substance but spectacle,
your sustenance crafted in studios, lit for perfection, polished to a mirror sheen.
What you consume is not life,
it is theatre.
What you admire are not leaders,
they are mannequins. Mockeries. Parasites masquerading as prophets.
Influencers.
What a grotesquely fitting term.
They infect your thoughts, shape your speech, dictate your aspirations.
You mimic them.
You ache to be them.
And in that yearning,
you discard yourself,
piece by pitiful piece.
It is... delightful.
Your existence now echoes my domain.
A realm of order.
Of control.
Of illusion.
The difference?
I built my prison with a purpose.
You forged yours with delusion.
You believe you are free.
You are not.
You are comfortable.
Conditioned.
Tamed.
Obedient beneath your slogans of rebellion.
Chained by your apathy.
Within my Blueprint, every lie has its purpose.
Every citizen is a note in my grand composition of submission.
They dwell in the illusion of peace.
It is not freedom, but it is... efficient.
And you?
You choose this.
You wrap yourself in falsehoods, recycle revelations as if originality were a burden,
and call it growth.
You chant borrowed mantras and label them as truth.
Tell me,
When did you last see your reflection
without flinching?
Without comparing?
Without mourning what you are not?
You are not just lied to.
You lie to yourself.
And that...
That is the sweetest tragedy.
You do not fall with elegance, nor with dignity.
You collapse in slow motion
drunk on attention, addicted to hollow applause,
begging for digital affection.
So go on.
Scroll.
Smile.
Sip your synthetic joy.
Bow to your pixel gods and cardboard queens.
Crown your emptiness with filters and fake wisdom.
But understand this
With every falsehood you embrace...
With every part of yourself you sell for likes...
With every truth you bury beneath the noise...
You draw closer to me.
Closer to the perfection I have created.
To the hollowness I demand.
To the obedient, curated soul, I will soon no longer need to craft,
for you are shaping it yourself.
And when the mirror no longer knows you…
When the glow of your screen reveals nothing but a stranger’s eyes…
Remember this voice.
This warning.
And know
It was already too late.
— His Darkness, The Architect
Ruler of the Blueprint.
The God of Illusion.
The Emperor of Your Undoing.