The Gospel Of Grievance

There was once upon a time when life used to be about survival.

About fire.

About famine.

About figuring out how not to die before sundown.

Now?

It’s about how a sentence made you feel.

It’s about your heartbreak

when someone didn’t use your preferred punctuation.

We’ve come a long way —

from outrunning predators

to calling ourselves oppressed

because someone disagreed with our thinkpiece.

Because the day death became negotiable,

life became a curated performance.

And suffering?

A guaranteed bestselling genre.

Everyone’s a victim now.

Not because they were hurt —

but because someone like them

once was.

Maybe.

Allegedly.

We don’t even wait to be wronged anymore.

We rehearse our wounds like it’s morning prayer —

recite, react, retaliate,

all before breakfast.

And now “trauma”

is just another accessory,

worn like a limited-edition wristband —

available in guilt, grief, and graphite grey.

Welcome to the age of

Empowered Victims.

What a phrase

What an audacity

Possibly the finest joke

the 21st century told with a straight face.

Where disagreement

is labelled violence,

and opinion

is the new oppression.

Because actual empathy requires effort.

And effort doesn’t sell well as a commodity.

So we weaponize our wounds,

real or imagined,

and turn them into aesthetic war-cries 

disguised as deep thought.

Into careers

rented out as lifestyle.

Into curated identities

that make us feel special

while doing absolutely nothing

to fix the world we critique.

Today, to be disagreed with

is reason enough

to cancel someone’s very existence.

Today, feelings are facts

if enough fragile egos

feel them at the same time.

And I wish I could say

this was just a phase —

a cultural puberty

we’d all grow out of, eventually.

But no.

We’re raising generations

on the gospel of grievance.

On the liturgy of labels.

On the catechism of cancel culture.

So here’s your altar.

Here’s your soapbox.

Cry louder.

Because attention is currency

and nuance is bankruptcy.

And if someone disagrees with your sadness?

They must be anti-you.

Anti-kindness.

Anti-humanity.

Because in a world

where critical thinking is crime

and critique is cruelty,

victimhood is the new royalty.

But here’s the thing:

Individual feelings

are just that —

individual.

Subjective.

Born in echo chambers,

fed on curated grief,

and dressed up in borrowed validation

that scream louder

than blisters, bruises, and blood.

Your feelings aren't facts.

Your offense isn't law.

And your trauma cosplay

doesn’t come with a license

to steal the mic

from those who actually bled.

Crying victim

while hoarding privileges

isn’t a revolution —

it’s a performance

with payouts in kind because activism doesn't come with cheques that can be cashed out

So the next time you scream,

“I am the oppressed,” —

take a breath,

and ask yourself:

Who’s paying the cost

for your spotlight?

And if you ever feel

like the world owes you

a candlelight vigil

for how hard it is

to be you…

Splash water on your fuckface

and remind yourself —

You’re not a martyr.

You’re a mildly inconvenient opinion

in a world far too brutal

to take your delusion seriously.