Donald Trump doesn’t build walls. He builds mazes. Shiny ones. With gold trim and no exits. Each hallway a distorted reflection, each turn a deliberate confusion of who’s real, who’s loyal, who’s next. Step inside and you’ll find familiar faces turned grotesque, former allies warped by funhouse glass: Giuliani melting under fluorescent interrogation, Lindsey Graham in eternal pirouette, McCarthy flickering between spine and spinelessness.
It’s not just a place of ego — though there are full-length mirrors for that too. It’s a psychological labyrinth, engineered to bend truth and flatten memory. Reality itself buckles in the Trumpian maze. Did he say that? Did he mean it? Did it even happen? “Alternative facts” are less a punchline than the compass rose here.
What makes this maze so maddening isn’t its chaos — it’s its design. This isn’t a malfunctioning democracy. It’s a performance piece. The walls shift depending on who’s watching. One moment he’s a populist hero, the next a martyr, a king, a victim, a phoenix, a prizefighter shadowboxing CNN. His base sees all these Trumps and chooses the one that flatters their fear.
Even indictments become mirrors — shards held up to his followers as proof of persecution, not guilt. The more the system pushes back, the more he points and shouts: “See? The deep state is real” And the maze expands.
The trick of the maze is that you never quite see who’s at the center. The Wizard never pulls back his own curtain. The Apprentice never hears the final “You’re fired.” Because the final twist, the ultimate reveal, the last dizzying mirror?
Is that Donald Trump might not even own the maze.
The real question is: who does?