The City of Polit­i­cal Dis­tinc­tion was a des­ti­na­tion known not for its glo­ry, but for the veiled tri­als await­ing those who dared approach. Jam­rach the Rich, accus­tomed to priv­i­lege and prof­it, embarked with urgency, eager to reach it before dusk fell. At a crit­i­cal junc­tion, con­fu­sion set in. Seek­ing direc­tion, he approached a Wise-Look­ing Per­son who offered the knowl­edge Jam­rach needed—for a price. Although reluc­tant to part with even a coin, Jam­rach paid, under­es­ti­mat­ing the true cost of his jour­ney. The Polit­i­cal High­way stretched before him, seem­ing­ly smooth but lay­ered with unseen tolls and intan­gi­ble bur­dens. Each step for­ward chipped away at his pride, dig­ni­ty, and wealth, but the promise of dis­tinc­tion urged him onward, even as the road’s edges blurred between farce and fate.

Soon after, a toll-gate halt­ed his progress, manned by a Benev­o­lent Gen­tle­man who extend­ed his hand not in wel­come but for pay­ment. Jam­rach ques­tioned the fee’s pur­pose, but it was explained that access to pol­i­tics required more than ambition—it required sub­mis­sion, prefer­ably vol­un­tary, but always inevitable. His coin was accept­ed with­out thanks, and the gate swung open. Onward he walked, pon­der­ing how polit­i­cal dis­tinc­tion demand­ed one’s resources even before grant­i­ng entry. Beyond the gate, the land­scape shift­ed into abstrac­tion, sym­bols replac­ing sol­id ground. A bridge spanned what appeared to be an invis­i­ble riv­er, super­vised by a Civ­il Engi­neer who declared it unsafe to cross with­out appro­pri­ate dues. Though there was no water, Jam­rach com­plied, sac­ri­fic­ing more of his gold for pas­sage over noth­ing­ness.

The trail even­tu­al­ly end­ed at a grim lake cloaked in fog and the scent of decay. A Fer­ry­man await­ed, indif­fer­ent to Jamrach’s hes­i­ta­tion. His ves­sel was no boat, and his ser­vice came not with oars but a rope. Jam­rach, too stunned to protest, found him­self dragged across the brack­ish waters, each moment erod­ing his sense of iden­ti­ty. The lake was thick with ink-like muck, cling­ing to his clothes, his skin, and even­tu­al­ly his soul. When he reached the oppo­site shore, a gray fig­ure wel­comed him: “You’ve arrived at the City of Polit­i­cal Dis­tinc­tion.” But what he saw was no city—it was a blur of shad­ows, where fifty mil­lion res­i­dents wore iden­ti­cal stains and unrec­og­niz­able faces. They had all paid the same fare in their own ways and, like Jam­rach, could no longer remem­ber what they were before.

The Fer­ry­man turned his ves­sel with­out cer­e­mo­ny. Jam­rach called out, insist­ing he want­ed to return. His voice echoed faint­ly, swal­lowed by the mist. The Fer­ry­man answered with a phrase that chilled the air more than the lake itself: “This is the Island of the Unre­turn­ing.” There would be no going back—not to wealth, nor to indi­vid­u­al­i­ty. In seek­ing dis­tinc­tion, Jam­rach had sur­ren­dered it. No crown or title await­ed him here, only same­ness, oblig­a­tion, and the strange com­fort of irre­versible deci­sions. He now belonged to the mass­es, all once unique, now per­fect­ly ordi­nary. His final pay­ment had not been gold, but his for­mer self.

Polit­i­cal dis­tinc­tion, in its truest form, emerges not from mer­it or bril­liance, but from endurance through dis­il­lu­sion­ment and trans­for­ma­tion. The satire of Jamrach’s jour­ney expos­es how pub­lic ambi­tion often demands pri­vate era­sure. The more one seeks sta­tus in sys­tems built on com­pli­ance and image, the less one remains a per­son and the more one becomes a prod­uct. Every toll paid, every step tak­en, peels away authen­tic­i­ty until only a role remains—performed duti­ful­ly, indis­tinct­ly, among mil­lions doing the same. The sto­ry cau­tions not against ambi­tion itself, but against mis­tak­ing con­for­mi­ty for great­ness. Like ink spilled on parch­ment, the deep­er one goes, the hard­er it is to dis­cern the lines that once made them who they were.