December 9, 2025

As I sit here in the quiet of my study on this crisp December morning in 2025, the weight of six decades presses upon me like the frost on the windowpane. Born in the early 1960s, I grew up in an America that promised endless horizons—the civil rights movement igniting hopes of justice, the space race symbolizing human triumph over the unknown, and a cultural awakening that challenged old norms.

Yet, now in my early 60s, with the shadows of retirement stretching long amid economic instability and a healthcare system that feels more predatory than protective, I've undergone a profound "waking up." This red pill, as it's called—echoing The Matrix's stark choice—has revealed not just societal illusions but a spiritual battle between good and evil that rages in the American heart, politics, and social fabric.

It's a personal reckoning, one that delves into the psychological depths of later life, where the soul grapples with legacy, regret, and redemption. What does it mean to awaken now, when the body wearies and the spirit yearns for light amid encroaching darkness? And how can embracing this philosophy propel us toward escape from evil's grip, fostering growth, thriving, and unity in the light?

My journey began not with fanfare but with a quiet erosion of trust, amplified by life's milestones: the 2008 financial meltdown that exposed the lies of Wall Street elites, the pandemic that unveiled Big Pharma's stranglehold on health policy, and personal losses that forced me to confront my own complacency.

At this age, the red pill hits differently—less a youthful revolt and more a spiritual confrontation with Erikson's integrity versus despair, where I reflect on a life potentially squandered in blue-pill ignorance. Psychologically, it's been a tempest: initial grief over illusions shattered, anxiety spiking as I unearthed the demonic undercurrents in society, and a profound sense of betrayal that mirrored the mental health crises plaguing my generation—loneliness, depression, amplified by a world that treats elders as expendable.

The dissonance was acute; memories of post-war optimism clashed with revelations of systemic evil, leading to rumination on how darkness had infiltrated my own heart—through apathy toward the vulnerable or blind faith in institutions.

This awakening framed evil not as abstract but as a palpable force corrupting America's soul. Biblically, it's the age-old battle: light versus darkness, where Satan masquerades as an angel of light, offering partial truths laced with deception. In the American heart, evil manifests in our treatment of the innocent—the least among us—through abortion, child abuse, and trafficking, horrors that desecrate the divine spark in every life.

Abortion, often sanitized as "choice," echoes ancient child sacrifices, with millions lost annually amid political lies that frame it as empowerment while ignoring the spiritual wound it inflicts on society. Child abuse and trafficking, rampant in shadows from elite circles to border crises, reveal a demonic exploitation where innocents are commodified for profit or power, as seen in cases linked to satanic rituals or institutional cover-ups.

These aren't isolated sins but symptoms of a corrupted political system, where the ownership class—elites in finance and tech—peddle obvious lies to maintain control, promising prosperity while engineering division and dependency.

Big Pharma exemplifies this evil's grip, wielding influence over politics and healthcare like a sorcerer's spell—pharmakeia in Greek, the root of "pharmacy," tied biblically to deception. Lobbying billions to shape policies, they prioritize profits over healing, turning pandemics into windfalls while suppressing alternatives and fostering addiction.

The average American becomes a profit center: exploited through inflated drug prices, privatized prisons, and corporate welfare that siphons taxes to the wealthy, all while government colludes in this looting. Social systems, meant for uplift, instead perpetuate cycles of poverty and incarceration, where corporations profit from human misery—prisons as labor camps, welfare as a trap.

This evil hardens hearts, breeding cynicism and spiritual numbness, as Ephesians warns of wrestling against principalities in high places. Psychologically, it fostered in me a dark night of the soul: fear of demonic influences, paranoia over manipulated realities, yet ultimately, a call to discernment that dissolved ego-driven illusions.

Waking up, however, offers escape from these forces' hold on our hearts and souls. The red pill, when aligned with spiritual truth, becomes a tool for liberation—not rebellion against God, but repentance from worldly deceptions. It pierces the veil, revealing Satan's lies as the original red pill in Eden, promising godhood but delivering bondage.

By awakening, we reclaim sovereignty over our spirits, rejecting profit-driven exploitation and choosing compassion for the innocent. Psychologically, it builds resilience: meditation and prayer dissolve anxiety, transforming grief into generative wisdom, as we mentor others away from darkness.

Productive paths forward abound—deliberate self-overhaul through detoxing from media sorcery, adopting holistic health to counter Big Pharma's grip, and pursuing enlightenment via Scripture over occult pitfalls. Growth emerges in reinvention: learning sustainable skills, volunteering against trafficking, or advocating for the vulnerable, turning stagnation into purpose.

Thriving means uniting with like-minded souls in light-centered communities—faith groups combating evil through prayer and action, online networks sharing red-pill truths without toxicity, or local initiatives building resilience against corporate predation. Opportunities to move toward the light are profound: awakening invites us to integrate shadows, fostering empathy that bridges divides and counters evil's isolation.

Through Christ as the true light, we escape demonic snares, pursuing higher knowledge that heals souls and societies—mentoring youth, exposing lies, and embodying good in a world of deception. In this twilight, the red pill isn't despair but a gateway to divine freedom. As I embrace it, I feel called to the light, ready to unite in truth. What shadows might you confront to step into it?

P.S. – The Fire That Comes After the Awakening

Something extraordinary happened on the far side of the red pill: the grief burned off, the rage settled into resolve, and a fierce creative energy took its place; one I haven’t felt since I was a young man .

At sixty-three, I thought the most productive years were behind me. Instead, I have entered the most prolific season of my life. The pen that once wrote grocery lists and quarterly reports now moves across the page like it’s trying to outrun the darkness. I work well past bedtime with the light of a single lamp, and pour out what the Spirit lays on my heart: essays, letters, song lyrics, and the growing notion of a manuscript.

I cannot not  write.

The same urgency that once kept watchmen on ancient walls now keeps me at this desk.

I am compelled to do two things, and only these two, for whatever years remain:

First, to expose the darkness without apology. Not with conspiracy memes or shouting, but with the cold light of documented fact: the money trails, the protected networks, the legislative betrayals, the spiritual rot that parades as progress. I name names when the evidence demands it, trace the bloodlines of power back through centuries, and lay bare how the innocent continue to be sacrificed on the altars of power, profit and control. This is not hatred; it is surgical love for the truth and for the children who cannot speak for themselves.

Second, and with equal passion, to re-tell the American story the way it was meant to be told: not as a flawless nation, but as the most audacious, fragile, and necessary experiment in ordered liberty the world has ever seen. I write about 56 men pledging their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor in a hot Philadelphia summer; about the Anti-Federalists who forced the Bill of Rights into existence; about the slaves and abolitionists who expanded the promise until it could no longer be denied; about the farmers at Concord, the women who marched for the vote, the immigrants who memorized the Constitution in night school because they knew tyranny firsthand. I write about the unique alchemy of dispersed power, armed citizens, divided authority, and a moral people that turned a wilderness into the last, best hope of mankind.

These two tasks: exposing the evil that now gnaws at the republic’s foundations, and rekindling reverence for the ideas that raised those foundations in the first place, feel like opposite sides of the same coin. One cannot stand without the other.

A people who forget why the American experiment matters will tolerate any atrocity. A people who see the atrocities clearly but no longer believe in the antidote of self-government will fall into despair or tyranny.

So I write, and I speak, and I mentor younger men and women who are waking up in their twenties and thirties, terrified by what they see. I tell them the same thing every time: the American idea is not dead as long as we not let it die in us.

The republic can still be reclaimed one county, one school board, one church, one repentant heart at a time. The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but they are mighty: truth, courage, memory, creativity, and the stubborn refusal to bow.

This creative fire is, I believe, the fruit of true awakening. When the illusions fall away and the demonic nature of the present age stands revealed, a man has two choices: bitterness or prophetic imagination.

By the grace of God, I have been given the second. Every page I write is an act of defiance against the spirit of the age and an act of fidelity to the Spirit who inspired a handful of colonists to declare that all men are created equal and endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights.

If these words find you while the splinter is still working its way into your mind, hear me: the pain is real, the night is dark, but morning comes, and with it the chance to build, to create, to stand in the gap. The American experiment is still the world’s brightest beacon of liberty, and beacons need keepers.

I intend to keep it burning until my last breath, or until the Lord returns; whichever comes first.

—pen in hand, lamp trimmed, eyes wide open.