Enough

[undated]

Society congratulates itself constantly. For progress. For enlightenment. For learning new words to excuse old behavior. They build monuments to their own restraint and call it morality.

They have not become better. They have become quieter about their appetites.

Everything now is framed as appetite. Desire elevated to virtue. Want elevated to identity. If you want something badly enough, it must be good. If it feels natural, it must be right. If it is common, it must be inevitable. They have removed judgment from the language entirely and then wonder why nothing can be condemned.

They say who am I to say?
They say everyone has their truth.
They say it’s complicated.

It is not complicated. It is indulgence.

They no longer believe in standards, only explanations. Every act is wrapped in biography. Every cruelty is softened by backstory. They demand understanding for everything except restraint. Restraint is now considered repression. Discipline is abuse. Shame is violence. The result is a population trained to react but never to refuse itself.

They are obsessed with rights and allergic to responsibility. They speak endlessly about harm while inflicting it casually, impersonally, without noticing. They shout about injustice while benefiting from it, as if volume substitutes for sacrifice.

I watch them perform concern. They rehearse outrage the way children rehearse lines in a play. Loud when watched. Silent when required. They are experts at appearing moral while remaining unchanged.

Nothing disgusts them more than consequences.

They want systems blamed because systems cannot look back. They want history blamed because history cannot answer. They want abstractions to carry the weight so they never have to. The individual has been dissolved into statistics and trends and diagnoses. No one is guilty anymore — only unlucky.

They have built a world where nothing is forbidden, only discouraged. Nothing is punished, only managed. They prefer correction to judgment because judgment requires someone to stand apart and say no.

No one wants that role. It is uncomfortable. It is lonely. It is dangerous.

So decay spreads horizontally. Quietly. Bureaucratically. Sanitized. The city does not scream. It hums. It functions. It rots efficiently.

They tell themselves violence is the worst thing a person can do. That belief comforts them. Violence is obvious. It announces itself. It can be filmed, debated, archived. What they refuse to name is the violence of indifference. The violence of neglect. The violence of knowing and doing nothing.

They step over suffering every day and call it realism.

I see them avert their eyes. I see the relief on their faces when someone else intervenes so they don’t have to. They are grateful for monsters because monsters absolve them. As long as evil looks exceptional, they can pretend normalcy is innocence.

Normalcy is the crime.

I write these pages to keep the record straight. To prevent the lie from settling in my own mind. Repetition is necessary. The world works hard to normalize itself. To convince you that what you see is acceptable because it is frequent.

Frequency is not morality.

They are offended by certainty. Certainty frightens them because it leaves no room to hide. They prefer ambiguity because ambiguity feels sophisticated. It allows them to float above action, untouched by obligation.

They call me extreme. They always do. Extremes make them comfortable — they can be dismissed. What terrifies them is consistency. Patience. Follow-through.

They mistake exhaustion for virtue. They are tired, therefore forgiven. Busy, therefore excused. Overstimulated, therefore absolved. They have turned weakness into a shield and called it humanity.

Humanity is not weakness. Humanity is choice.

I am often asked — not aloud, but implied — why I care. Why I do not simply withdraw, adapt, ignore. The answer is simple. Withdrawal is agreement. Adaptation is endorsement. Silence is partnership.

I refuse partnership.

This is not about anger. Anger burns out. This is about correction. Correction requires distance. Correction requires resolve. Correction requires a willingness to be misnamed.

They will call this hatred. It is not hatred. Hatred requires attachment. I feel none. What I feel is clarity, sharpened by repetition and confirmed by observation.

Every page I write reduces doubt. Every word removes softness. The work becomes cleaner as sentiment drains away.

They will not thank me. Gratitude is irrelevant. They will not understand me. Understanding is unnecessary. What matters is that the illusion fractures. That the noise stops for a moment. That attention is forced where it has been withheld.

They believe the world collapses when rules are enforced. They are wrong. The world collapses when nothing is.

Someone must be willing to become the boundary.
Someone must be willing to say enough — and mean it.

I am finished asking.