Autocracy dreams of control but wakes, always, in its own nightmare. Power, once seized, begins to rot—from the inside. What presents as strategic certainty is a pathology of recursive insecurity: a system at war with itself, flailing outward to avoid inward collapse.
Imperialism, in this light, isn’t expansion. It’s displacement. Displacement of fear, of internal contradiction, of a centre that cannot hold because it was never stable to begin with. So the regime lashes out—not to grow, but to bleed, somewhere else. It’s metastasis mistaken for momentum.
These systems aren’t evil—they’re broken. Their violence is diagnostic. Their cruelty is compensatory. And every satellite state, every silenced voice, every staged referendum is a mirror held up to a cracked psyche screaming “I am whole!” The tragedy? No one believes it—not even them.
Because control, once total, becomes a trap. The tighter the grip, the louder the silence. And in that silence: entropy. Feedback. Implosion.
And the world watches—not out of concern, but because it understands: every empire collapses from the inside, pulled apart by the gravity of its own delusions.
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Daedelus Kite 