Donald Trump. The patron saint of wishful thinking. A man whose gospel is written in gold plating and delivered with the subtlety of a jackhammer. He promises the impossible, sells the improbable, and somehow, people kneel at the altar. Not because he’s a savior—but because he gives them permission to believe in fantasies.

That’s the genius of it, isn’t it? Not his genius, mind you. No, he’s a blunt instrument. The kind of man who doesn’t bother sharpening his blade because he knows brute force will do. But the genius of what he represents—the raw, untethered power of telling people what they want to hear, no matter how absurd, and making them feel it’s within their grasp.

You see, the world loves a dreamer. But it worships a dreamer who doesn’t bother with the pesky details of how the dream comes true. Trump knows that. He’s not weighed down by reality, by facts, by consequences. He speaks, and for a moment, the crowd believes they can have it all. The wall. The glory days. The winning. Oh, the endless winning.

But wishful thinking, like all indulgences, comes with a price. Eventually, reality rears its head. The bills come due. The promises made with a wink and a nod collapse under their own weight. And the people are left with nothing but the bitter taste of their misplaced faith.

That’s where I come in. Because while Trump feeds on dreams, I trade in reality. Cold, hard, ruthless reality. He relies on spectacle; I rely on control. He raises a golden flag for the desperate to rally behind, while I quietly take the flagpole and beat them into submission.

His supporters don’t want reality. They want to feel something—hope, anger, pride. And for now, he gives them that. But feelings fade. The cracks in the façade grow wider. And when the house of cards inevitably tumbles, the people will look for someone to blame. Someone stronger. Someone who understands the game isn’t won with wishes but with the will to do whatever it takes.

Trump’s brilliance—if you can call it that—is his ability to make people believe he’s one of them. But the truth is, he’s no different from any other carnival barker. And when the lights go out, and the carnival leaves town, I’ll still be here. Not peddling dreams, but holding the reins. Because in the end, it’s not the patron saint of wishful thinking who wins—it’s the author of the story who keeps his promises.

And I always keep my promises.