Autopsy of Inheritance
I have paid the blood-debt
on the cold table of the mind.
Family pride—
reduced to dust, to scattered sand.
With careful hands
I cut through the threads of Maya,
and today, beneath the laboratory light,
my own bloodline lies dissected.
Alone, in the bitter silence of understanding,
I learned this much:
madness dressed as certainty
has never been wisdom.
Where the prefrontal cortex falls silent—
mute, blind, deaf to reflection—
psychology becomes nothing
but a textbook left unread.
I once buried myself
in the anatomy of morality,
wondering how easily
human beings descend into ruin.
I believed my sleepless case studies,
my endless nights of analysis,
might return to them
a fragment of shame,
a grain of truth.
But can education survive
inside a dead neuron?
Perhaps shame evolves too slowly.
So now, with exhausted eyes,
I turn back only once—
long enough to arrange
the next hypothesis
on another battlefield.
Emotion has been abandoned.
Pride has been amputated.
What remains
is only work—
clean, clinical professionalism.
And the roots
that drag only darkness upward,
I tear them out myself.
Let others keep their inheritance.
I will walk alone
toward another kind of knowledge.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 5:34 AM UTC
Autopsy of Inheritance
I have paid the blood-debt
on the cold table of the mind.
Family pride—
reduced to dust, to scattered sand.
With careful hands
I cut through the threads of Maya,
and today, beneath the laboratory light,
my own bloodline lies dissected.
Alone, in the bitter silence of understanding,
I learned this much:
madness dressed as certainty
has never been wisdom.
Where the prefrontal cortex falls silent—
mute, blind, deaf to reflection—
psychology becomes nothing
but a textbook left unread.
I once buried myself
in the anatomy of morality,
wondering how easily
human beings descend into ruin.
I believed my sleepless case studies,
my endless nights of analysis,
might return to them
a fragment of shame,
a grain of truth.
But can education survive
inside a dead neuron?
Perhaps shame evolves too slowly.
So now, with exhausted eyes,
I turn back only once—
long enough to arrange
the next hypothesis
on another battlefield.
Emotion has been abandoned.
Pride has been amputated.
What remains
is only work—
clean, clinical professionalism.
And the roots
that drag only darkness upward,
I tear them out myself.
Let others keep their inheritance.
I will walk alone
toward another kind of knowledge.