Ah, the torchbearers of justice, the self-proclaimed saviors of morality, marching with banners raised high and chants echoing through the streets. We proclaim to "eat the rich," to dismantle privilege, to tear down the very systems that breed inequality. But let’s strip away the slogans, the hashtags, the performative outrage, and look at the truth we refuse to face. The truth is this: we are not just complicit in the system we claim to despise—we are the system. And I, for all my scornful words and lofty ideals, am no different.

Look at Luigi Mangione, a name that should stir our collective disdain. The golden child of entitlement, the nepo baby strutting through life with unearned confidence, wielding inherited wealth and privilege like a scepter. He embodies everything we rail against. Everything we tweet about. Everything we call unjust. And yet, what do we do when Luigi steps onto the stage? We don’t tear him down; we build him up. We don’t condemn him; we make exceptions. We tell ourselves it’s different this time because he supports the right causes, funds the right movements, whispers the right words in the right rooms.

Do you see it now? The hypocrisy isn’t just his—it’s ours. We carried our pitchforks and our righteous fury, not to fight injustice, but to make ourselves feel virtuous. We wave our torches, not to light the way, but to burn down only the enemies of our ideology. Luigi Mangione isn’t the anomaly in our outrage; he’s the proof of its emptiness. Because our indignation isn’t about principle—it’s about convenience. We despise privilege only when it belongs to the other side. We fight inequality only when it serves our interests. We don’t want to dismantle power—we want to wield it.

And I, for all my railing against this hypocrisy, am guilty too. I’ve carried the torch, joined the chorus, pointed the finger outward to distract from the darkness within. I’ve made compromises, justified exceptions, looked the other way when it suited me. I’ve scorned the Luigis of the world while quietly benefiting from the very systems I claimed to despise. And the bitter truth is this: I’ve been playing the same game, just under a different banner.

Donald Trump once boasted he could shoot someone in broad daylight and walk away untouched. We condemned him, called it the height of arrogance, the ultimate proof of corruption. And yet, Luigi doesn’t need to boast. He acts. He does what Trump only threatened to do, and we let him. We excuse him. We rationalize his privilege because it aligns with our goals. And in doing so, we betray our own principles.

But this isn’t just about Luigi Mangione. It’s about all of us—the mob, the zealots, the self-proclaimed vanguard of justice. We’ve turned morality into a weapon, outrage into currency, and justice into a performance. And when the performance ends, when the applause fades, we’re left holding the same levers of power, pulling them for our own ends. We’ve become the very thing we claim to fight. We’re not dismantling the system; we’re perpetuating it.

And I? I am no different. For too long, I’ve carried the pitchfork and pointed fingers, pretending I was better than the rest. I’ve fed into the cycle of outrage, wielded indignation as a shield to deflect from my own flaws. But I see it now. I see that my fury, my righteousness, my moralizing—they were never about justice. They were about control. About power. About feeding the ego while claiming to starve the monster.

But I don’t want to be this anymore. I don’t want to be part of the mob, part of the machine, part of the hypocrisy. If I’m going to raise my voice, it has to mean something. If I’m going to carry the torch, it has to light a path—not just set fire to those I oppose. Luigi Mangione isn’t the villain of this story. He’s the mirror. And the reflection I see is damning.

So, let this be my reckoning. Let this be the moment I stop pointing fingers and start taking responsibility. The system doesn’t change from the outside—it changes from within. It doesn’t start with them—it starts with us. With me. And if we’re ever going to break the cycle, we must first confront the truth about ourselves. Because if we don’t, then we are doomed to repeat this pattern, carrying our torches, waving our banners, chanting our slogans—all while the darkness within us grows.

Let this be the beginning. Let this be the moment I step out of the shadows of my own hypocrisy and into the light of something real. Because the world doesn’t need more outrage—it needs change. And that change starts now. With me. With us. Together.