The Tyrant

What a rush.  Look at these people.  They are mine.  I am God to them; I can do what I want with them, to them.  I tell them what to do, where to go, and they obey, immediately and without question.  They speak only when I will it so, and then only say what I have dictated.  They are born only when I allow it, and their lives last only as long as it is convenient to me.  They laugh and dance and sing, but only once I have deemed it appropriate.  They may never ask my permission or plead for more freedom, for they have only the voice which I give them.  I have rendered them utterly dependant on me.  The advancement of their lives hangs entirely on my whims; if I choose to abandon them, they shall stay as they are, indefinitely.  No one may come to their rescue, for they are mine.  Mine to play with.  Their emotions, their words, their actions are mine.  Their very thoughts are mine.  And they will never rise up against me, for I do not want it.  Injustice, you cry.  And yet, were it not for this confession, you never have grasped the extent of my control over my people, vessels for my will.  For though you see me on the news, read about my people in the papers, I seem innocuous to you.  Yes, to them I am God.  But to you, I am no more than one more author.