Fire in the Mouth
They say it’s a joke.
They always say it’s a joke.
A king, a tyrant, a wall, an invasion, an exile, a purge. A joke.
But words have weight, and some words are heavier than others. Some words roll easily off the tongue, bright and golden like coins from a rich man’s purse. Others strike the earth like a hammer against steel, setting off sparks. And some? Some are fire in the mouth, setting the world ablaze.
The First Words Were Spells
We were taught, once, to respect words. To fear them. To treat them as things of power, because they are. The first words were spells, incantations, and prayers. Names had meaning. Names were dangerous. You did not say a thing’s true name unless you meant to summon it.
This is why stories begin with invocation.
This is why fairy tales warn you not to say the demon’s name.
This is why dictators write manifestos before they rise.
Why armies march beneath banners painted with slogans.
Why history is nothing but a war of narratives.
A battle of stories.
“Long Live the King.”
Words.
Small, almost harmless. But in a world where words shape reality, the way wind shapes dunes, the way rivers carve through stone, no word is harmless.
The weight of those words is measured in bodies.
Because before a thing is done, it is spoken. And before it's spoken, it's imagined.
We tell ourselves that no one will go that far, that a joke is just a joke, that a single sentence cannot rewrite the future. But it has before. And it will again.
History is not a straight road, but a circle. A snake eating its own tail, swallowing its own lies, choking on them.
Every Tyranny Begins with Laughter
There is a moment before every atrocity when it's still funny.
The tyrant is a buffoon, a clown, a ridiculous little man with ridiculous little ideas. He fumbles. He stumbles. He makes absurd proclamations.
And we laugh.
We laughed when he called journalists the enemy of the people.
We laughed when he suggested staying in power beyond his term.
We laughed when he called his opponents traitors.
We laughed because it was absurd.
We laughed because it was easier than screaming.
And then, one day, we stopped laughing. Because it was no longer a joke. Because the punchline was gone, and all that was left was a man standing at the podium, saying the words we never believed we would hear.
By then, it was too late.
The Words We Choose, The Futures We Build
The world is not made of stone and metal. It's made of language.
Borders are just words on a map.
Laws are just words written down.
Governments rise and fall on the weight of words.
A word can open a door or slam it shut. It can build a wall or tear one down. It can grant citizenship or strip it away. It can condemn or forgive.
And once a word is spoken, it cannot be unspoken.
The Death of Meaning
There is an old trick, an old spell, that rots words from the inside.
You say a word too often, in too many ways, until it means nothing. Until it's an empty husk. Until it's a sound that people hear, but don't understand.
Treason.
Freedom.
Justice.
Democracy.
Say them enough times, and they become ghosts. Say them enough times, and they become things people parrot, without thought, without feeling, without weight.
Say them enough times, and you can use them to mean whatever you want.
Say “fascist” enough, and suddenly no one is a fascist.
Say “racist” enough, and suddenly no one is racist.
Say “authoritarian” enough, and suddenly the dictator is just another politician, no better, no worse.
Say “king” enough, and one day, the crown appears.
We Were Warned
We were warned a hundred times, a thousand times, in books, in stories, in history lessons. We were told what happens when we let words lose their meaning.
Orwell called it Newspeak.
Huxley called it Soma.
Bradbury burned the books before the words could even be read.
The words are being deleted in totum as we speak.
We were warned that words could be twisted, turned against us, used as tools, as weapons, as cages.
But we forgot.
Because the words were repeated too many times.
Because the warnings became stories, and stories became fiction, and fiction became something that happened to other people, in other places, in other times.
Not here.
Not now.
Not us.
And so, the old words returned, in new mouths, spoken by new tongues.
And we did not listen.
Because it was a joke.
The Weight of Silence
Silence is heavy, heavier than words, heavier than stones.
Silence is what gives words their power. Silence is what lets a lie grow until it becomes truth. Silence is what turns a joke into a policy into a law into a war into a grave.
A single word can be a seed, but silence is the soil that lets it take root.
When they tell you they are king, and you say nothing, you make it real.
When they tell you they will take your land, and you do not protest, you make it real.
When they tell you they are above the law, and you do not laugh in their face, you make it real.
We do not have the luxury of silence.
Speak, Before It's Too Late
There will come a day when speaking is dangerous.
When to question is treason.
When to criticize is a crime.
When to remind people that things were once different is to invite suspicion.
There will come a day when the words in our mouths are fire, but not the kind that ignites rebellion. The kind that burns us alive.
But that day is not today.
Today, our words still have weight.
Today, our words still have power.
Today, we can still choose what kind of world we will build.
And if they say they are kings, we will say no.
If they joke about conquest, we will say no.
If they whisper about exile and imprisonment, we will say no.
Loudly.
Clearly.
Without fear.
Because if we do not—if we say nothing—then we have already lost.
And the joke is on us.
A king, a purge, an invasion, a war... just words, just talk.
But words shape the world.
Before a thing is done, it is spoken. Before it's spoken, it's imagined.
If you don’t challenge the words, you won’t stop what comes next.
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