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The Republic of My Eye ©️

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The culmination of Project 2025, if fully realized over the next 50 years, would bear striking—and increasingly inescapable—resemblances to the vision laid out in The Handmaid’s Tale. Margaret Atwood’s dystopia, long dismissed by some as speculative fiction or feminist allegory, becomes instead a prescient map of the psychological, social, and institutional transformation that can occur when theological fervor merges with unchecked state power. Project 2025, when viewed through this lens, is not just a policy agenda—it is the ideological blueprint for Gilead’s long game.

At its root, The Handmaid’s Tale portrays a regime built on the belief that crisis justifies control. In Gilead, fertility collapse is the emergency used to justify theocratic restructuring. In Project 2025’s framework, the “crisis” is not biological but moral—an erosion of national virtue caused by secularism, globalism, and the loss of traditional gender roles. The solution is similar in both systems: resurrect a pre-modern value structure under the guise of restoring order, and subordinate the individual—especially women—to a collective theological mandate.

Both systems target women not simply because of misogyny, but because controlling reproduction is the fastest way to control society’s future. If Project 2025’s ambitions regarding abortion, contraception, and family planning are realized, we enter a regime not unlike Gilead’s in principle if not yet in theatrical severity. Women would be redefined primarily in terms of their reproductive and familial function. State and federal funding would be redirected from reproductive healthcare toward pro-natalist propaganda and “family reinforcement” initiatives. Laws restricting gender-affirming care, sexual autonomy, and the very discussion of these topics in public schools would help build the cultural scaffolding for what could eventually become a caste system of gender.

But the parallels go deeper—into the structure of power itself. In Gilead, the command structure is steeped in loyalty tests, ideological purity, and biblical justification. Project 2025 outlines a civil service purge, demanding every federal worker pledge allegiance not to the Constitution in its living form, but to a fixed ideological vision derived from religious traditionalism and executive supremacy. The elimination of independent agencies and neutral bureaucrats mirrors Gilead’s replacement of technocrats with “Eyes,” “Angels,” and “Commanders”—loyalists with moral authority but often little competence. The administrative state is gutted and replaced by an ecclesiastical one.

Educationally, both models reject critical thinking as corrosive. In Gilead, schools teach obedience and scripture. Under Project 2025’s ideal scenario, public education would be restructured to promote “patriotic history,” religious moral codes, and the supremacy of the nuclear family. Secular humanism would not be debated—it would be criminalized. In 50 years, if such a program were maintained generationally, we would see a populace raised to see obedience not as submission but as virtue.

Both systems require control over language. The Handmaid’s Tale famously weaponizes speech—“Under His Eye,” “Blessed Be the Fruit”—as instruments of surveillance and submission. Project 2025’s media reforms, if implemented, could lead to a federal communications infrastructure where dissent is branded as disinformation, where ideological speech codes are enforced not by mobs, but by law. In Gilead, resistance is whispered. Under a fully matured Project 2025 regime, it may be algorithmically erased.

What is most chilling, however, is not just the similarity in policy, but in intention. Both regimes believe they are saving the world—not for everyone, but for the righteous. They view freedom not as a natural right, but a dangerous indulgence that must be restrained for the good of the soul. In both visions, the future is not plural—it is purged.

And yet, this comparison is not made to exaggerate. It is made to illuminate the trajectory of power when it is given divine mandate and political control without reciprocal accountability. The Handmaid’s Tale was once fiction. If Project 2025 is permitted to evolve without opposition, it becomes prophecy.

A fifty-year culmination of Project 2025 would not produce Gilead overnight, nor would it need to. Gilead was not built in a day. It was built through the slow erosion of rights, the careful redefinition of language, and the mass hypnotism of a people told that righteousness justifies cruelty. The lesson from Atwood’s masterpiece is clear: the most dangerous regimes are those that claim they are saving you. In time, they save nothing but themselves.

In that future, America may still call itself free. It may still fly its flag, hold elections, and pledge allegiance. But under the surface, in its womb and in its silence, it will be Gilead—reborn not in fiction, but in fact.

This Isn’t a Police State ©️

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It was always dusk in the city, or maybe the sun had simply stopped bothering to rise—no one quite remembered. Time here didn’t tick so much as hum, low and wet, like the sound of an old refrigerator rotting in a ruined motel. The streetlights never went off. The shadows never left. You had to squint to see people’s faces, even when they were right in front of you. That’s how they liked it.

He woke up in a steel-walled unit designed for optimal docility. They used to call them apartments, once upon a time, when doors had hinges and windows opened. Now there was just the hiss of hydraulic locks, the blinking red light in the ceiling’s eye socket, and the pale, flickering glow of the propaganda mural bleeding across the wall—children holding flags, static creeping through their smiles.

The boy—no name, never one of those—brushed his teeth with a powder made from algae and bone ash. Tasted like death and salt. He didn’t mind. There were worse things. His father had once told him about fruit. Apples. He’d described them like dreams: red, crisp, alive. He died a week later in a “utility misalignment.” That’s how the morning bulletin phrased it.

Outside, the city breathed like an iron lung. Cars without drivers hissed down neon canals of tar. Patrolmen, faceless in mirror helmets, paced like wind-up toys with stun batons in their hands and prayers in their throats. The boy kept his head low and moved fast. Everyone walked like they were trying not to be seen by ghosts.

His job was at the Archive—a windowless, soundless tower in Sector Nine. Inside, he cleaned memory reels. Actual tape, glossy with the sweat of old history. The Archivists wore gloves and masks and never spoke above a whisper. They said the past was infectious.

He worked in silence, breathing through cloth, fingers trembling as he slid a reel into the incinerator—“JUNE 1984: UNAUTHORIZED ROMANTICISM.” He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried since the last curfew riot, when they shot the air so full of sound it tore the sky open like tissue paper. He’d watched a girl fall in half. Her name was—no, not safe to remember.

At 3:07 PM, the fire alarms blared for precisely nine seconds. A test, they said. But he noticed the Archivist across from him flinch wrong—like he hadn’t known it was coming. That’s how you knew someone was about to disappear. The sound of not knowing.

After shift, he didn’t go home. Not yet. He walked the old line—where the subway used to run before it flooded with blood or data or both. Down there, things echoed differently. Rats with cyber-spines scurried past, their red eyes blinking Morse. And in a corner only he knew, behind a sheet of scrap metal, was a projector. Ancient. Illegal. Precious.

He powered it with a stolen battery from a city clock. It whirred like a dying animal, coughing light onto the crumbling wall. The film was broken, half-erased, but the faces that flickered across the cement were real. Laughing women. Men dancing with cigarettes. Kids running down streets with no sirens, no patrols. People living like they weren’t being watched.

He watched until the reel snapped. Watched until the ghosts went quiet.

Then he stood. And for just a second, in the dark, he whispered his name. Just once.

Not loud. Just enough to remember he still had one.

Outside, the city screamed again. Sirens this time.

They were coming.

And still—he did not run.