They called Kierkegaard insane,
poor man, poor fool..
ink turned against him
by a city that feared
his furious clarity.
That label is given still:
“mad,” they say,
when a voice rises
against the hidden thing,
the shadow crouched in the soul,
the beast that feeds on silence.
It is not flesh that is cursed,
but the fortress
built stone by stone
from secrets unspoken,
where the child’s cry was buried
and the monster kept the key.
Yes, let it be cursed again..
that ancient predator
that left spirits trapped,
that tried to leave others
shattered in its claws.
If eternity should open,
even the darkness of God
would rise against it,
tumbling the beast
through endless years,
stripped of its power,
stripped of its stolen faces.
Call it madness,
call it folly.
The words remain jagged,
for truth has teeth,
and silence has killed enough.
At least the monster was named
when others smiled politely
and called it “past.”
At least there was no collusion.
And if the witness is written off,
so be it
Better condemned
for fighting the beast
than praised for leaving it
enthroned.
There is always a risk in fighting the beast: the risk of becoming monstrous in the process. To call it by its true name, to drag it into the open, often looks like madness. Kierkegaard wore that label, and so do all who refuse silence.
The truth cuts jagged, not polished.. and yes, in the fight, one becomes scarred and monstrous. That is the price of standing against the darkness. This piece is not for the crowd. It is a cry against the beast itself, spoken into the universe entire.
Yeah.. exactly..
"Control yourself,
take only what you need from it--
A family of trees wantin'
to be haunted"
https://youtu.be/fe4EK4HSPkI?si=hyG3BpKE6I8bn82p
for those who understand,
no explanation is needed
xox