The World is Staged

CW: Mentions of emotional and psychological abuse

THE WORLD IS STAGED

Step into a shadowed, fictitious world—one that unfolds like a grand Broadway production. Here, we peer through the proscenium arch or across a screen, observing lives played out with the calculated precision of a script.

A world teeming with illusion, where fake people and fabricated news shape the narrative by unseen hands.. This unsettling paradigm bleeds into our own lives, and mirrors our jobs, our education, and even our pursuit of humanitarian ideals. Life itself becomes a performance, observed through the lens of a screen or the gaze of an audience, where individuals play their roles, knowingly or not.

The authorities on stage/workplace, weave illusions with the finesse of master dramatists—some designed to pacify, others to provoke. But who, truly, pulls the strings behind the curtain? Perhaps it’s time to shake the tree and see what falls.

The despotic rulers serve as grandmasters of this elaborate production, orchestrating performances with calculated precision. Beneath them, the enforcers—stage crew in title, muscle in practice—move with alpha posture and subservient intent, executing the grunt work with rehearsed flair.

They strut as supervisors, wielding borrowed dominance, their authority a costume stitched from directives handed down by THE BIG DOGS—the chief architects of the spectacle.

It’s a hierarchy built on illusion, where obedience masquerades as power, and every role is cast to maintain the fiction. It’s a choreography as old as ambition, rehearsed daily not just on velvet-draped stages but in the sterile corridors of office life. There, middle managers parade like sovereigns, parroting lines from unseen executives, mistaking obedience for authorship, performance for power. Meanwhile, the true performers—the actors—revel in their spotlight, driven by an insatiable hunger for accolades. Their rhapsodic recitals, delivered with unbridled flair, mask the machinery behind the curtain.

The asinine coworker pays no mind to fairness or even morality, merely a vessel for sheer malice. They revel in their lack of scruples, wearing it like a badge of honor, unconstrained by conscience or restraint. But their wickedness isn’t self-made; it’s cultivated, entrenched in their minds by those who pull the strings.

In their warped reality, corruption is currency, yet they remain nothing more than prisoners of vice. Their mentality is fueled by arrogance— ‘I’m better than you,’ ‘Look at me,’ or the insatiable, selfish ‘Me, Me, Me.’ The coworker stands at a crossroads, poised between integrity and manipulation, inclusion or exclusion, dictated by the ruthless hierarchy. In this tangled web of status and ambition, civility is abandoned, arrogance thrives, and insolence reigns supreme.

They flock to the boss, desperate to remain in the limelight, clinging to insidious rules like lifelines. With their self-important ‘Look at me! Or I’m better than you!’ facade, they chase approval like a prize with shameless devotion, eager to please their tyrants' demands. It’s not loyalty—it’s obsession, a ritual of relentless, fawning obedience. Fairness never factors into their world. The authorities have carved Machiavelli’s cunning into their minds, embedding a poisoned root that festers and spreads. In time, betrayal becomes inevitable, and manipulation becomes second nature. To climb higher, one must trample another, ensuring wickedness thrives and loyalty remains an illusion.

Cowardice, selfishness, and weak-minded servitude—these traits govern them. They lack the will to stand alone, drawing strength only from their guru, clinging to authority like lifeless extensions of a greater scheme. Pitiful. Their security lies in numbers, embedded within their clique, shackled by the very ridicule they fuel. They do not think for themselves; they function as programmed entities, awaiting orders and obeying without hesitation.

Among their flock, they puff their chests, feigning dominance, spouting bald-faced arrogance. But their power is an illusion, their confidence a hollow facade. These ravenous, treacherous, backstabbing figures operate with ruthless precision, their hearts calloused, devoid of empathy. Natural affection eludes them—they are cold, calculating, and utterly consumed by their insatiable hunger for control.

It’s almost comical—to get one of them alone,---separate one from their puppet master, and suddenly, they falter. For that fleeting moment, they speak in your favor, flashing a sheepish grin, avoiding eye contact, their cowardice on full display. A sham, through and through.

But what became of morality? The fabric essence of decency dissolves like mist, vanishing before it can take hold. Dare to uphold integrity, and they’ll mark you as prey—an insect, ready to be crushed. In their world, the majority dictates truth, indifferent to justice. Right or wrong holds no weight--or so they convince themselves. Majority rules. Justice doesn’t.

But do they know their bible history? I think not. Take heed: "Throughout biblical history and modern times, the pattern remains unchanged—the majority falters while only a few endure. "Time and again, civilizations rise and fall, leaving only a small remnant to endure the turmoil. From Noah’s flood to today’s fractured world, just as Lot and his family of five escaped while an entire city perished, the pattern remains unchanged. The lesson is clear: the masses follow destruction, while the few carve a path to survival. Perhaps following the crowd isn’t always wise. Wouldn’t you agree?"

Throughout my school days and on the job with my colleagues, I’ve endured bullying, mocking, and blatant disrespect. Those who value ethics and intellect are ridiculed, labeled with hideous, degrading names—such as nerds, geeks, dorks. I, too, was called a weirdo, an oddball, dumb, or stupid. Yet only the gullible fear such labels, revealing an insecurity, exposing a hidden weakness within their own character, far greater than they’d ever admit. Indeed, I have endured these fiery trials—no matter how heavy—will never extinguish the goodness and love that reside within me. They fear individuality; they fear strength.

Conformity is their lifeline, and anyone who resists threatens their fragile sense of control. Frankly, they don’t know how to handle me—they lack the courage to do what I do. So, they resort to petty attacks, casting aspersions to inflate their ego and erode my reputation.

When they strike, they do it in a pack—emboldened by numbers, clawing to overwhelm me. It’s like at a picnic, and I am the bowl of rolls—grasped at from every angle, pulled apart in desperation. They hope I’ll fold, that I’ll surrender, that I’ll cave and conform. But bearing their taunts, enduring their ridicule, has only fortified me. In the end, I stand unshaken—and with ten against one, they prove themselves the cowardly fools.

I’ve seen it all before—bad-mouthing, whisper campaigns, the spineless ones rallying the crowd. Predictable.

Do I care? Not in the slightest. Standing alone. Losing friends. I’ve walked that path too many times to flinch. It’s second nature now—like a stroll in the park.

They pit themselves against me, thinking numbers make them strong. But all they do is highlight my strength. Their slander doesn’t shake me—it only echoes their fear.

True strength, audacity, and courage lie in facing adversity alone. It’s not found in numbers—it’s found in standing firm when it’s just you against the world. I take pride in my resilience.

Now word’s spread: 300 against 1. I’ve become the workplace outcast. So petty. It echoes the story of Gideon in Judges 7—facing an overwhelming enemy with just 300 men, and still prevailing with God’s backing, of Course. They despise me even more because they know I’ve conquered them. Touché, touché.

By their shallow standards, I’m branded second-rate. Should I care? Don’t make me laugh.

I embrace the reality of this somber battlefield, fully aware of the role I’ve assumed. I see their retaliation coming—dripping with venom, laced with contempt.

But if they dared to examine the depths of their own hearts, perhaps their judgment would soften into understanding.

They flock like ravenous lemmings, surging toward the sea—desperate to serve the insatiable force behind this twisted empire of deceit.

They revel in the illusion of my downfall, fueling conflict and reinforcing the very patterns that tear me down—believing it will somehow elevate them.

But I move beneath the surface, navigating dangerous undercurrents, watching—waiting—for their inevitable next move.

I’ve faced enough bad pitches to know the game. And every time, I emerge stronger.

Still, the sting of betrayal never quite dulls. Time and again, those I once called friends unravel into enemies.

At this point, should I even be surprised?

The air grew thick, suffocated by mutual contempt.

Betrayal stirs a singular kind of isolation—a gnawing sense of inadequacy—but fear has no place here.

They discarded me like a crumpled wrapper, insignificant in their judgment.

Yet betrayal forges depth. It fractures trust beyond repair, leaving scars that make rebuilding nearly impossible.

The weight of lost faith lingers, turning new relationships into perilous terrain—each step shadowed by doubt.

Then came the moment of madness—a surge so consuming it threatened to drown reason. My pupils dilated. My pulse roared. Adrenaline tore through me. And then—disappointment crashed over me like a tidal wave: suffocating, merciless, relentless. My so-called friend had struck the deepest blow, gutting me with treachery and pulverizing every ounce of faith I had left.

The agony seared upward, scorching a trail to my throat. My heart clenched, aching with a pain no blade could match. I would have preferred the brutality of a physical beating. At least then, the wounds would be visible.

To be deceived, humiliated—to be utterly swindled—it was a fire I could not extinguish. Spitfire—that’s what I was. My thoughts fanned the flames, tempting me to strike back, to give in to fury. The chaos in my mind demanded action, but the weight of reason held me in place, lingering between rage and restraint."

I quickly rose above the negativity, cultivating a mindset that grants me a deep sense of inner peace. I've learned to control my temper—thank God for that. After all, haven’t we all had moments of madness?

Betrayal isn’t always black and white; it’s tangled, messy, it muddies the waters, and full of nuance. My colleagues—once friends—have forfeited that title. They sided with what they thought was victory, but in truth, they revealed their weakness. No originality, no imagination—just puppets, easily manipulated, devoid of independent thought.

The realization hit me like a lightning bolt—I finally saw who was orchestrating it all from behind the curtain. It was Satan and his demons. Suddenly, everything made sense. I had spent years wondering why, no matter where I worked, I was always treated the same way. Some people are naturally cruel, yes—but beyond that, Satan intervenes. He watches, he waits, and when the moment is right, he manipulates. People have always treated me differently--because I was…different. They tried to make me question myself; to believe something was inherently wrong with me. That I didn’t belong. But now, I understand—why I never did. And I never will.

John 15:19 says, ‘The world is fond of its own.’ For years, I misunderstood its meaning, thinking it referred only to material possessions. But now, I see—it speaks to people, those whom Satan has conquered, those who follow blindly, unaware that they have surrendered their will. He has the majority of the world in his grasp, controlling them with whispers, illusions, and temptation. The proof? 1 John 5:19 states it plainly: ‘We know that we originate with God. But the whole world is lying in the power of the wicked one.’ There it is. Satan is worshiped, revered, and even feared. Some call him a false god. But the truth is simple—there is only one true God. No middle ground. No compromise. You either choose righteousness and live, or you choose wickedness and perish. Free will exists, but every choice comes with consequences."

I’ve grown more withdrawn and brooding than ever. My adversaries hurl insults, unaware that I’m breaking inside; oblivious to the turmoil beneath my silence. Sarcasm leaks from me—a defense mechanism, a reflex to their jeers: Sharp and uncontrollable. Then guilt crashes in. I should rise above, turn the other cheek. But remorse lingers like an unwelcome shadow. They critique my flaws with their unruly behavior, mocking me in ways that cut deeper than words. Beneath the surface, resentment simmers. I reported them, hoping for resolution, yet cynicism grips me—the system feels indifferent. They’re all moving in sync, pulling the same strings.

The boss's inaction is deafening. Not only does she dismiss my feelings with insipid replies, but she also deflects by emphasizing my errors and turning the situation against me. The sheer audacity of linking a professional evaluation with a demand for sycophant behavior is laughable, if it weren’t so pathetic. I'd choose a walk across hot coals over such degradation.

Looking from the outside in, their world is chaos—tenuous, tumultuous, a mess of brazen conduct. They think nothing of their cruelty—because the boss lets them get away with it. Even if they knew it was wrong, they would not change. They do not care. Their thrill is the challenge—the pleasure of stripping dignity, of crushing ego. Their lens wades through a thick fog, unable to see beyond the haze. Stagnant in the darkness, they exist in a distorted reality, oblivious to the fate awaiting them. Slimy, blood-sucking parasites, feeding off the suffering of the innocent. They thrive on treachery, insidious in their deception, pathologically indifferent to the damage they inflict. How do they sleep at night?

Dread coiled within me, tight in my chest. Futile hope clinging to the prospect of escape from my coworkers’ humiliation. A suffocating weight pressed down as I braced for the inevitable humiliation. Their gazes sliced through me, cold and unforgiving. One masked a grin behind their hand, but the others didn't bother—sharp words lashed out, mocking, stripping me down with sneering cruelty. Stupid. The air itself felt poisoned, heavy with their repugnance, isolating me within a prison of shame. Then, without restraint, they burst into laughter—loud, unbridled, sharp enough to sting. It echoed, lingering in the hollows of my mind long after the moment had passed.

My heart plummeted, a sinking weight in my chest. When panic threatens to consume me. I refuse to let them see me break. The air was intoxicating, pressing against me like a vice. My vision blurred under the weight of their disrespect, their cruelty—but I did not break. I contained myself. I stood strong. Even when the storm inside me raged, I did not fold.

There is a system for channeling my anger. When faced with senseless drama, spiteful criticisms, and misguided opinions-- the strongest move isn’t retaliation--it's walking away. To lash out would be to validate their cruelty—to sink to their level. Engaging in their chaos is an endorsement of their attitude. A strong woman doesn’t seek revenge. She moves on and lets karma do the dirty work. And Karma? It never forgets. It collects debt with interest.

As I come to grips with what just happened, the reality sinks in, cementing itself in my mind. My rivals weren’t just coworkers—they were the corporate beasts, the ones who signed my paycheck; the ones waiting to hang me out to dry. This isn’t random cruelty; it’s calculated. There is no end to their villainy. But the scripture John 15:19 eases my mind-- that they are fond of their own. That’s why the boss turned against me, why I was cast aside. I never conformed, never bowed to their rhythm. I just wasn’t one of them, and that made me their target. Yet, despite it all, I endured.

I knew I was alone. No allies, no refuge. It was a calculated betrayal, a silent conspiracy woven between them—the bosses, the supervisor, the director, each one turning against me to assert their dominance, flexing their control. But I did not falter. They wielded guilt and shame like weapons, but I refused to break. Their power was an illusion, and I would not let them shape me with their cruelty.

And so, the lesson emerges. Life is staged—its players rehearsed, its scripts prewritten by forces both seen and unseen. But when you stand outside the cast, when you refuse the costume and reject the role, you begin to see the truth unravel. Because the performance was never confined to the theater—it bled into the workplace, where power wears civility like camouflage, and silence is the weapon it wields.

Evil does not hide—it performs. And authority, cloaked in power, often dances to its rhythm. I have endured not because I played along, but because I saw through the act. And in that clarity, I found strength. I found God. I found myself.