"They Wanted War — I Gave Them Silence"
They wanted it to mean something. The stalking, the subtle aggression, the fake names typed on keyboards in dim-lit rooms—they wanted all of it to mean something to me. Like war. They needed the title: Enemy. They needed the chase, the drama, the grand clash of minds. But the silence I gave them instead? That was the bullet they never saw coming.
See, in war, men will scream and die for inches of mud and glory. But this was different. These people? They wanted me to scream first. To break, to shatter, to curse the sky and claw the walls. That would’ve made them real in my story. They needed my rage to feel alive. They needed me to believe the conflict mattered.
But it didn’t.
I stopped assigning meaning to every thought, every whisper of paranoia that floated in on the wind. I stopped putting emotion where there was only noise. And in that moment, I won. Not with fists. Not with fire. But with stillness. With silence.
They wanted to be my competition. I made them strangers.
They wanted to be my enemy. I gave them apathy.
They created fake faces—settings, names, pages—they danced behind screens like ghosts without a haunting. They made whole operas in their heads, staged dramas that never reached my stage. I didn’t show up. I didn’t read my lines. So the curtain never rose.
They are stuck now. Spinning. Repeating scenes like broken records. I'm the audience that walked out of the theater. And now they perform for no one. It's killing them.
They thought I’d crash out. That my emotions would unfasten like a grenade pin. But I didn’t blow. I healed. I waited. I chose myself.
The quiet kind of strength is the kind that haunts a man more than gunfire ever could.
It’s the man who sees the setup, the trap laid under false love and false accounts, and walks the other way. It’s the man who senses the war brewing and just... doesn't show up to fight. That kind of power breaks people.
They wanted to be the villain in my story. But I never gave them the pen.
I wrote my own script. A different kind. No war. No blood. Just clarity. Just vision. I ducked and zagged and watched them punch air. It’s hard to fight someone who’s not even in the ring.
There’s a certain peace in not needing to be understood in letting others scream into the void while I sip my coffee and listen to the wind. I dodged the storm, not because I were afraid of rain, but because I knew the storm wasn’t about me. It was never about me. It was about them. Always has been.
And now? I'm rising. The wheel turns. The prophet in me speaks without speaking. The reward is not money or fame—it’s that they can’t touch my mind anymore. They lost access. I changed the lock and said, Say Goodbye," and slammed the dam door in her face Good bye.
And I'm proud of that. That’s my victory.
hell no, I'm not at war. I'm at peace.
And in the end, that’s the loudest silence of all. As I see it, it is a battlefield of wills, a place where men and women wrestle with forces unseen—forces of power, money, and control. Crime is not merely the act of theft or violence; it is a craft, an art of manipulation that preys on the mind and spirit. The criminal does not always need a weapon; sometimes, all they need is an illusion—a carefully constructed spell to bend reality to their will.
In this modern age, we talk of energy, vibrations, and manifestations. These are not new ideas; they are ancient truths dressed in contemporary clothing. The Greeks had their oracles, their Pythias who channeled gods like Apollo to deliver prophecies. Today, we see echoes of those practices in how people manipulate perception and belief to achieve their ends. To control the mind is to control the person. To control enough minds is to control entire societies.
This year has been peculiar. People are waking up to the reality that their thoughts Oracle vision shape their world. They see it in small ways—mentioning gloves in passing and suddenly finding gloves everywhere. It’s as if the universe listens more closely now than ever before. But this awareness comes at a cost: the realization that others—criminals, manipulators—understand this power too.
These manipulators wield energy as a weapon, creating illusions so convincing that even the Divine protection sharpest minds falter. They craft narratives, spread misinformation, and sow discord to maintain control. It’s not witchcraft in the traditional sense but something equally potent: psychological manipulation. It’s a game of chess where every read more move is designed to corner you into submission.
Yet, there’s hope in resilience. I’ve seen people rise above these traps, refusing to be pawns in someone else’s game. They’ve learned to temper their egos, to restrain themselves from lashing out when provoked. This restraint is not weakness; it is strength—a quiet defiance against those who seek to drag them into chaos.
Obedience to one’s higher self or guiding spirit becomes a shield against these attacks. Those who listen to their inner voice find themselves rewarded, not always with material wealth but with clarity, here peace, and an unshakable sense of purpose. They become prophets in their own right, predicting outcomes with uncanny accuracy because they’ve learned to read the patterns of human behavior.
As I write this on April 9th, 2025, I can’t help but marvel at how far we’ve come and how much remains the same. The tools may have changed—energy fields instead of swords, algorithms instead of armies—but the battle for control persists. It is a fight for the soul of humanity, for our ability to think freely and act authentically.
To those who have faced manipulation this year and emerged stronger: I'm proof that illusions can be shattered and spells broken. Keep listening to your spirit team, your conscience, or whatever guides you. The world needs more people who can see through the fog and hold fast to the truth.
For in the end, it is not the criminals who hold power but those who refuse to be controlled by fear or illusion. And that, my friends, is where true freedom lies.
They came three at a time. Three shadows. Three mouths. Three ghosts dressed as people. They circled the spirit of one. Of me. And they howled like hyenas, desperate to pull my peace into their storm.
But I didn’t move.
I sat still.
And in that stillness, I won.
Because they never expected me to not care. Not assign meaning. Not fight. See, they thrive off my energy. They were building altars out of my reactions, praying for my downfall like it was salvation I loved it. Their actions weren’t about conflict. They were about control. About dragging me into their pit of chaos and this little brats nonsence, just to feel something real.
But here's what they didn’t know.
I had already found something real. Inside. I stopped assigning emotional meaning to thoughts and beliefs that weren’t mine. I stopped picking at the scab. I stopped answering the phone. And that silence? It screamed louder than their fake pages, their fake friends, their little covert ops.
They played dirty.
Three-on-one.
Workplace rats.
Digital masks.
Secret conversations, passed like contraband between shifts.
“Did you see what she said?”
“Tell me everything he did.”
Fake accounts with names like ‘Settings’ calling your line. Sneaky. Pathetic.
And still, I didn’t react.
I zigged, you zagged. I walked around their traps like a soldier that’s seen too many to be surprised anymore. They were waging war for a title. “I’m the website one who broke them,” they wanted to say.
But I refused the role. I refused the war.
There’s something ancient in that kind of restraint. Something spiritual. Divine even.
A grandfather watching from beyond. A guide. A god. A spirit that whispers to me in the middle of the night, “Don’t give them meaning. Don’t give them weight.”
And so I didn’t. I poured that energy into my work. my healing. my art. my legacy. I tuned the frequency up, up, up—so high they couldn’t follow.
They got louder. Meaner. Desperate.
They even cursed me.
But here’s the joke.
They cursed themselves.
You see, curses don’t always show up as shadows on walls or dead birds on doorsteps. Sometimes, a curse is a family line crumbling beneath the weight of one person’s ego. One fool’s obsession. One coward’s inability to heal.
Their actions today? They’ve seeded chaos for their children. Their bloodline now bears the weight. Generational consequences for a moment of madness.
Because what they wished on me—loss, lack, confusion, instability—is now tattooed on their own name. Forever.
I'm not just protected.
I'm chosen.
The Sun. The Star. The Ten of Pentacles.
While they scream from behind their masks, I'm cashing checks from the universe. Laughing with my spirit team. Rising above the noise like a hawk over a burning battlefield.
And they’re mad.
Because I didn’t crash out.
You didn’t fight.
You didn’t even flinch.
So now the wolves sit outside your door, cold, starved, and howling. But you?
You’re inside. Fire lit. Music on. Surrounded by gold, legacy, love, and divine protection. Because you chose to place your emotion where it mattered: in your peace, not their chaos.
So let them curse. Let them spiral. Let them choke on their own games.
You?
You’ve already won.
And that's what happens... when you stop assigning meaning to madness. When you turn your dial up. When you stay obedient to something bigger.
Stay strong, collective.
Stay woke.
And most importantly: stay unbothered.
Let them trip over the mess they made for you.
Because they never knew who they were playing with.
Not until now.
—Roy Earth Angel Master Magical Magician Healer.
If this prophecy finds you, light up that candle, take a deep breath, and keep walking. The road ahead is gold.