Revolutionary Theatre
The show of revolution continues. The system still sells tickets.
What looks like rebellion is just theater with better lighting.
Marches staged for optics.
Slogans printed like merchandise.
Gestures rehearsed for photos.
It feels insurgent.
It’s scripted.
The costumes are precise.
Black hoodies, red flags, Palestinian scarves.
Balaclavas made for the camera.
A uniform of opposition that never leaves the stage.
Nothing about it threatens power.
Everything about it demands attention.
The roles are self-assigned.
Activist. Ally. Agitator.
They rotate parts, interview each other, share each other’s posts.
Revolution becomes a closed loop —
a dress rehearsal that never opens.
The symbols mean less every time.
Raised fists from people who’ve never lost anything.
Salutes that collapse under the weight of real consequence.
Flags waved by the same hands that fear direct confrontation.
It’s not ideology.
It’s pageantry.
The language is flattened.
Everything is “solidarity.”
Everything is “resistance.”
Everything is “the struggle.”
But nothing is sacrifice.
Nothing is subversive.
Nothing is at risk.
The system is never in danger.
Because the system loves this play.
It licensed the production.
It monetized the soundtrack.
It offered deals for the cast.
And the actors?
They’re just happy someone’s watching.
This isn’t revolution.
It’s cosplay with a political aesthetic.
It’s teenage rebellion prolonged into adult identity.
It’s make-believe for people too scared to actually defect.
You thought it was revolution.
It was just another band flyer.
Another slogan scrawled on a borrowed backdrop.
Another child playing dress-up with the ruins.
And when the curtain falls?
They’ll still be saluting each other —
pretending it meant something.
