The Empire That Gaslit Itself
A Savage Eulogy for Great Britain’s Mythic Delusions
Here lies Great Britain: Not fallen in war, Not broken by rebellion, But rotted from within by its own lies.
The empire that swore it brought light to the world, Now drowns in the shadows of its unpaid debts— Spiritual, historical, human.
It taught the world to speak English, But forgot how to speak the truth.
From the red lines of Sykes-Picot, To the silent complicity in Gaza, From Bengal to Belfast, Kenya to Kabul, Its fingerprints are everywhere, But its conscience is nowhere to be found.
The monarchy wears jewels from wounds it never healed. Its museums are mausoleums of theft. Its democracy—a PR firm for oligarchs.
It colonized the world, And now calls itself a victim when statues fall.
Britain gaslit the globe with tales of civility, While running torture camps, orchestrating famine, And branding genocide as "order."
Even now, it allies with apartheid, Funding destruction while quoting Churchill, Exporting arms while importing nostalgia.
And the saddest part? It could have been great in truth. It could have atoned, evolved, led.
Instead, it chose denial, Wrapped in flags, Poured over tea.
So we gather not to mourn the fall of empire— But to bury its myth.
Rule Britannia? You can’t even rule your narratives anymore. You don’t own the future. You barely own your past.
Long live the storytellers who burned the empire down. Not with bombs. But with memory. With mirrors. With memes.
Here lies the empire that gaslit itself.
We don’t need your permission to remember.