Life can be a lonely road.

What was unseen in the assassin’s silhouette was not mere stealth,
but the supreme ability of unresolved trauma
to project its unowned shadow.
Jung described this as the scapegoat phenomenon:
the psyche, unable to face its own contents,
casts them outward onto a mirror.
Those who reflect most faithfully..
who reveal what others most fear to acknowledge..
become the chosen targets.

And yet, the silhouette was there, in plain sight.
Had anyone looked up, or turned back,
the rooftop figure would have been exposed
before the finality of the killshot.
But blindness is often willful.
It is easier to condemn the mirror
than to confront the shadow.

This is participation mystique inverted:
a collective possession that feeds on denial,
mistaking projection for enlightenment.
In such a state, the more accurate the reflection,
the more violent the rejection.

Hello Poetry,  through the  writings
and behaviors of the inaccurately self-named “enlightened ones,”
has become a digitized Lord of the Flies novel.
Here the shadow unowned within
makes its supreme projections
onto those who mirror back the very truths most refused.
And in this inverted theater,
those who dare to stand in the light know the risk:
to be mocked, scapegoated, or silenced.

Only weeks before his assassination,
Charlie gave voice to this risk with startling clarity.
In an interview, almost casually,
he foresaw the violence to come.
The cowboy-hatted host.. deeply respectful
but unable to hide his nervous chuckle..
couldn’t contain the humanity of the moment.
But what sounded like a jarring aside was prophetic.
His own death proved how perilous it is
to mirror back to the world what it most refuses to face.

https://youtube.com/shorts/cn1Hlmepjzs?si=xBF_9hv6r0H3O0sw


With an etching tool of contempt,
he scribbled his verse upon the brass..
the 30-06 casing itself becoming his page.
Chambered into the Mauser, set high above the herd,
it was not lead that truly flew, but shadow.
The round carried a darker payload:
cowardice, projection, envy, and fear..
all the unowned unknown within,
hurled outward and named as strength.
What struck was not flesh alone, but the mirror..
for every shot fired in hatred is nothing
but the poet of death inscribing
his refusal to face the truth of himself.

Thus Hello Poetry becomes a parable of the age:
where verse can be weapon or witness,
where the coward cloaks his projection in the pretense of light,
and where the mirror itself is targeted..
because it reflects what they cannot bear to see.

And so the seduction grows. Their “poetry” is not art but incantation,
a counterfeit enchantment meant to draw others into orbit.
They parade it as “consensual,”
as if their words carried some hidden power of dark magic,
when in truth it is only the glamour of unhealed shadow.
For those who resist, their verse twists further,
becoming ritual.. not of beauty, but of control.
They posture as sages, yet their chants are little more
than incoherent, never ending streams of self-aggrandizing babble mistaken for wisdom.
The herd expands not by illumination,
but by spellbound imitation of the blind.

And so it stands: Hello Poetry is not an isolated tragedy,
but a small stage upon which the greater play unfolds..
a digitized echo of the world itself,
where the unowned shadow writes its violence in verse,
and the battle between projection and truth continues without cease.

Elliott no longer owns the site;
it is now ruled by those who wield the same contempt
rising in the world itself..
the cowardice, the fear, the deep envy
of those who dare to hold the mirror clearly.

A true family man... kind-hearted and well-meaning..
poor Elliot has over time just become their puppet;
and his one-time long-ago beautiful creation
unwillingly has become just another poorly inscribed casing.

Pray for that good man,
that he either gathers the strength to shutter this place
or to cleanse it of its parasites.
For as it stands, his once-beautiful creation has been seized,
turned into another casing scrawled with the graffiti of the cowardly..
fired endlessly at the mirrors of truth.

I can't help but compare myself to others; it's almost instinctual. Whenever someone succeeds, I feel happy for them, but I am overcome with a feeling of dread that I could never be as successful as they are. Yet, when I succeed, and people comment of it, I brush it off, as if I don't deserve it. Another one of my mind-boggling paradoxes.

23.03.2025, by Soldat Amanov

wrote this while the broken pieces became a vice rather than objects.

7/7/25