undated

[undated]

People complain that the world is cruel.
They say it like weather. As if cruelty happens to them.

Today a man laughed while a woman cried on the bus. Not loudly. Just enough to register. No one said anything. They looked at their phones. That is the real crime. Not the laughter. The permission.

They call it minding your own business.
They call it tolerance.
They call it survival.

It is rot.

Everywhere, appetite without restraint. Food eaten without hunger. Sex without intimacy. Noise without meaning. They gorge themselves and then wonder why they feel empty. They ask for sympathy. They demand comfort. They resent judgment.

Judgment is the only thing that has ever mattered.

People say “who am I to judge?”
That question alone proves guilt.

I watch them step over the homeless like furniture. I watch them argue about television while children are beaten in the next apartment. I watch them excuse everything with words like “systemic” and “complex,” as if naming confusion absolves participation.

They believe silence is neutrality.
Silence is consent.

They will not listen to reason. They will not listen to truth. They will not listen to God. They listen only to spectacle. So spectacle is required.

This is not anger.
Anger is temporary.
This is clarity.

Someone must stand outside the sickness to name it. Someone must do the work they are too comfortable to do themselves. History will pretend to misunderstand. That is fine. History always forgives the masses and condemns the necessary.

I do not enjoy this. Enjoyment is irrelevant.
Purpose does not require pleasure.

They will see.
They will have to see.