The Oppressed

Intro They take your name first, replace it with a number, strip you of your voice and identity like it’s something dangerous, something that might set fire to the walls. The cell is thick with silence, but it hums with the weight of everything you’re no longer allowed to say. Every time you try to speak, they’re there—The Talkie Censors, with red pens and blank-eyed enforcers—cutting you down, blotting out your words like they were crimes. You used to believe your voice mattered, that truth had a kind of gravity. But now, they twist your meaning, erase your intent, tell you silence is peace. They call it safety. You know it's fear—their fear of what you might awaken. And each day, they chip away at you, trying to make you forget who you are. And maybe—just maybe—it’s starting to work.