by Janet Lessin, CEO, Aquarian Media
AN OLD ARCHETYPE RETURNS
Every so often, a political figure steps onto the stage, and the atmosphere around them thickens. The usual categories—left and right, conservative and liberal, hawk and dove—start to feel inadequate. Something older and deeper stirs beneath the day-to-day noise, and people experience that person less as a politician and more as an embodiment of a story they already know by heart, even if they can’t quite name it.
For many Americans, Donald Trump became that kind of figure. To some, he appeared as a champion of the “forgotten.” To others, he was a threat to constitutional order. But beneath those competing assessments lies something more archetypal: the return of sacred kingship—the idea that one man can stand above institutions, beyond law, and somehow be the nation.
This archetype predates the United States, predates Europe’s monarchies, and is as old as civilization itself. It is woven into the stories of god-kings, divine-right rulers, and mythic heroes who claim not just authority, but a sense of cosmic entitlement. In Anunnaki terms, it is the pattern of rulership associated with Marduk and other domination-oriented deities who conflated their personal will with the fate of entire peoples.
Trump did not invent this pattern. He stepped into it.
In this article, we explore his rise and his movement—MAGA—through three interlocking layers:
- The Official Story frames him as a populist restorer of a lost golden age.
- The Psychological and Archetypal Structure that shapes his behavior and his bond with followers.
- The Anunnaki Overlay, where Trump resonates with an ancient Marduk-ian template of sacred, dominating kingship.
THE OFFICIAL STORY: POPULISM, PATRIOTISM & THE PROMISE OF RESTORATION
On the surface, the Trump era was sold to his base as a story of righteous reclamation. It was never just about policy; it was about identity and myth. The United States, in this narrative, had been stolen by globalists, bureaucrats, immigrants, cultural elites, coastal technocrats, “the deep state.” The job of the hero was not to govern within the system, but to wage war against it.
Trump’s rally speeches were structured less like policy addresses and more like sermons in a revival tent. He promised to “drain the swamp,” stand up to “corrupt elites,” and speak for those who believed they had been mocked, ignored, or betrayed. The message was emotionally concise:
America had once been great.
Evil forces had corrupted it.
Only a uniquely strong, fearless, and persecuted leader could restore it.
This is not a new formula. It echoes Charles I, who treated Parliament as a rebellious inconvenience beneath his God-given authority, and George III, who saw colonists’ demands not as dialogue, but as disloyalty. Go further back, and you find the same pattern in sacred monarchies where rulers insisted they did not merely represent the divine—they were the divine’s chosen vessel.
What made MAGA especially powerful was how it reframed the relationship between citizens and institutions. Courts, journalists, scientists, and election officials could all be dismissed as corrupt whenever they failed to affirm the leader’s preferred reality. In that context, faith in Trump began to function less as political support and more as spiritual loyalty.
To those who resonated with this story, he became a vessel for their own grievances and hopes. To those outside it, he appeared as a destabilizing force. Either way, the pattern was older than the contemporary left–right divide. The United States found itself reenacting a drama that has played out before, in palaces, thrones, and royal courts, long before anyone had heard the word “MAGA.”
TRUMP’S PSYCHOLOGY & THE ARCHETYPE OF THE FALLING KING
Beneath the mythic overlay, Trump’s leadership can also be understood through the lens of personality structure. His behavior displays a familiar configuration seen in other authoritarian and quasi-authoritarian figures: blurred boundaries between self and state, intense hunger for admiration, strategic use of grievance, and increasing fragmentation under pressure.
In psychological terms, this looks like confluent identity—where the leader’s personal needs are experienced as indistinguishable from the nation’s needs. An attack on him becomes an attack on the country. Legal accountability becomes “persecution.” Checks and balances feel like betrayals. This conflation is not rhetorical; it appears to be genuinely felt.
Layered over that is narcissistic fragility. The constant demand for adoration, the sensitivity to criticism, and the compulsive need to dominate the narrative suggest a leader who requires external validation to hold himself together. When that validation is threatened, the response is not introspection, but escalation.
Observers have also noted signs of cognitive strain and decline—linguistic confusion, repetition, invented words, memory glitches, and associative drift. On their own, such signs could be chalked up to age and stress. Combined with a preexisting pattern of magical thinking—insisting something is true because he says it is—they contribute to the sense that what is being projected is not a policy platform, but an entire psychic world.
Historically, this configuration resonates with the archetype of the falling king. We see versions of this in Charles I, who clung to divine-right thinking until it cost him his crown and his head, and in George III, whose rigidity and episodes of instability became inseparable from the crisis of empire around him. In these cases, the ruler could not imagine sharing power—not simply because of ideology, but because doing so felt like the annihilation of the self.
Modern democracies are supposed to protect against this by dispersing power across institutions. Yet when enough people invest emotionally in a single figure, those institutions struggle to function as designed. The falling king archetype does not merely destroy itself; it pulls at the fabric of the system, holding it in place.
THE ANUNNAKI OVERLAY: TRUMP AS A MODERN MARDUKIAN AVATAR
When we zoom out beyond psychology and history, another pattern becomes visible—one that lives in myth, memory, and the Anunnaki framework you and Sasha have been mapping for decades. In this overlay, Trump looks less like an outlier and more like a contemporary avatar of an old, persistent frequency: the Marduk-ian ruler.
In Sumerian and Babylonian traditions, Marduk is the ambitious, assertive, often polarizing deity who rises to prominence not through quiet wisdom but through dramatic conflict. He is associated with victory in war, slaying chaos, rewriting cosmic order, and demanding recognition as chief among the gods. His story is one of domination framed as destiny.
Translate that pattern into human politics, and you get leaders who:
- thrive in conflict and drama,
- divide populations into loyalists and enemies,
- push institutions to the breaking point,
- demand personal loyalty above all, and
- cast themselves as the only force capable of saving the nation from collapse.
MAGA’s rituals—rallies, chants, oaths of loyalty, public declarations that “only Trump can fix it”—fit this pattern precisely. The movement’s rhetoric often oscillates between grievance and grandiosity, persecution and support. It invokes purity language (“real Americans”) and entertains policy proposals such as mass deportations and remapping citizenship—modern bureaucratic expressions of older “purity codes” associated with Enlil/Marduk-style governance.
In the Anunnaki story, Enki represents a more partnership-oriented, experimental, adaptive consciousness. Marduk, by contrast, often represents domination logics, centralization of power, and a willingness to fracture worlds to win. When we see Marduk’s pattern play out through modern political figures, we are watching an ancient frequency move through contemporary systems that were never designed to hold it.
In this sense, Trump is not merely a man acting in a vacuum. He is part of a much longer arc—a recurring attempt by domination templates to reinstall themselves at the center of human governance during times of uncertainty and transition. The question is not whether such rulers arise. They always do. The question is whether societies recognize the pattern in time and choose a different response.
CONCLUSION: THE KING IS NEVER JUST ONE MAN
Trump is not the beginning of this story, and he will not be the end. He is one node in a long chain of figures who have stepped into the role of sacred ruler—divine-right king, god-appointed emperor, chosen strongman, cosmic avatar of order against chaos. What makes this moment different is that humanity now has historical hindsight, psychological insight, and, for those willing to consider it, an Anunnaki meta-framework that reveals just how old this pattern truly is.
The deeper question facing the United States—and, by extension, the human experiment—is whether we will continue reenacting domination scripts written long ago, or whether we are ready to evolve toward partnership: shared power, mutual accountability, and a recognition that no single person can or should embody the fate of an entire nation.
This series traces that choice across time. Trump is one chapter in a much larger book. The real story is about us: what we recognize, what we tolerate, what we resist, and what kind of world we choose to build now.
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