I watched them pose the question to him. It was a query designed with a deceptive, almost cruel simplicity: 2028. The terminal point. The horizon where the sun is mandated to set on a four-year cycle that was never intended to be a permanent orbit. But as I watched the man in the center of the cabin, I realized that for him, the very concept of a "terminal" is an insult to his blood. “I guess I’m not allowed to run,” he told them. I heard no iron in his voice—only a petulant, lingering ghost of desire. “It’s too bad.”
The Necrosis of the Limit
To hear him describe the 22nd Amendment as "too bad" is to listen to a man admit he views the foundation of this house as a prison cell. I see the necrosis setting in here: the way power, when left to stagnate in a single vessel, begins to rot the vessel itself. I watched him cite the Constitution as one might cite a boring detail in a contract they intend to break later. He mentioned the law, but I could tell his heart was elsewhere—clinging to the leather chairs, the golden seals, the intoxicating high of being the only voice in the room.
The 22nd Amendment (1951) was not a suggestion; it was an exorcism. It was written to banish the spirit of George III from the American soil forever. To mourn its existence is to welcome the spirit back into the parlor.
The Hollowed Sovereign
Power is a parasite. It enters through the ears as flattery and exits through the mouth as a decree. As I watched him look out the window at the clouds, I knew he wasn't seeing a path to South Korea; he was seeing a path to permanence.
The specter I see isn't just a third term. It is the total collapse of the "loaned seat." It is the moment the occupant forgets they are merely a tenant and starts changing the locks while we sleep. If the Constitution is a boundary, he is currently testing the fence with a wire-cutter made of "unfortunate" sighs.
The Boundary
❝ The Constitution is not a suggestion. It is a boundary. It is a promise. It is the only thing standing between the citizens and the whims of a man who thinks the world was built for him to own. ❞
❝ We were not meant to be ruled. We were meant to resist. The moment we stop seeing the term limit as a sacred wall, the wall becomes a door for a tyrant to walk through. ❞
May the archive remember the whisper that cracked the covenant. Not a shout, not a decree, but a casual dismissal of the only thing keeping the throne empty.
BETRAYAL MUSED // TRANSIT REALIZED