The art of monetising fear Script Politicians have long mastered the art of monetising fear, transforming societal anxieties into powerful tools for garnering votes, donations, and loyalty. By amplifying threats, whether real or exaggerated, they create a sense of urgency that compels the public to rally behind them, funding campaigns and endorsing policies that promise protection. This strategy not only secures their power but also perpetuates a cycle where fear becomes a lucrative commodity, much like how alarmist narratives drive engagement and profits in broader discourse. So why don't more contemporary artists leverage or expose this political platform, given that power and art have always been symbiotic? Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art . Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private...
It was breathtaking to see the sun rise over Story Bridge. Yet, I couldn't help but be buried in my thoughts as I walked through the deserted alleyways. My soul was burdened by depression and anxiety, and the suggestions of others simply made things worse.
I had the impression that I was stuck pushing a wheelbarrow full of emotional baggage. My own concerns and doubts were causing me to delay and postpone my aspirations. Bouts of procrastination and hopelessness prevented me from realising my full potential. So I identified with every cause that offered relief because I felt like an important person.
But then I came across a motivational transcript without a title that promised to guide me towards inner tranquillity and contentment. Instead, I experienced a change in myself as I read the lines. My mental fog started to lift, and I began to perceive the world differently.
I walked through the busy streets. The life and vitality of the city hummed all around me. Once overpowering and disorganised, the flashing lights now made me feel awestruck and amazed. The writing made the world's splendour and majesty more apparent. I experienced a sense of tranquillity and pleasure that I had never experienced before as I gazed out over the city skyline with its tall towers and busy flashing lights.
The world was now a place of promise and beauty rather than fear and dread. It seemed as though I had come out of my own personal hell, where the writing of an unidentified influencer had significant meaning. However, now that I had discovered a route out, I could embrace the light and leave the darkness behind.
I realised at that precise time that the speech had given me a second chance to face my worries and uncertainties and appreciate the world's beauty. As the sun rose higher in the sky, it signalled the start of a brand-new day full of prospects and chances for growth and development.
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Puppet Master The narrow, high-walled passage swallowed the sound of my boot scraping a broken cobblestone, the echo sharp in the dry air. Above, a sliver of unforgiving sunlight cut down, carving deep shadows where the damp, mossy scent of the gully was now replaced by the smell of dust and ancient stone. I paused, looking not just at my gloved hand—the leather scuffed from my descent, but at what was attached to it. Thin, nearly invisible lines, like high-tensile wires , stretched from the articulated cuff on my wrist and disappeared into the air above the path. I tracked them with my eyes until they converged on a small, stone figure standing motionless in the centre of the walkway. It was a crude marionette , barely a foot tall, carved from the same pale, cracked stone as the surrounding walls. Dressed in a simple tunic, its blank, oval face held a radiating sense of expectant waiting. Its arms were held out, palms up. I held the strings. Yet, the feeling was not one of cont...
Scene 1 It smells like… time down here. Not just damp earth or rot, but something older. A primal scent that’s been waiting in the dark for a millennium. I’m recording this at the bottom of the scar somewhere in the anomaly. In my mind, it's called the Necropolis Gully . My helmet is trying to map it—casting these sterile, digital grids over the moss and the stone—but the data doesn’t make sense. It’s glitching. It’s shuddering against the reality of this place. I don't know why I'm here, looking at ruins. Just... debris. But in the ruins, I found the ghosts of a future that never happened. I was walking over shards of polymerised memories . This was once a city. It was meant to be the heart of a new world that... simply stopped. It wasn't an engineering failure. It was a failure of existence. Holding that slate, I felt this... weight. The grief of the architect. The "wounds of unbuilt dreams." I realised then that this isn't a graveyard for people. It’...
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