Blame draws breath. Inhale the fear of other people. Exhale the accusation that keeps the fear alive. Each cycle promises control—naming enemies, drawing boundaries, standing strong—but strength here is a mask. What passes for rebellion only generates new codes, new rituals, new obligations. Rules always return, harsher and more brittle, precisely because they are denied. The system tightens as it insists upon freedom.
Fear is never hidden. It cannot be; it thrives in plain view. What is hidden is ineptitude, the inefficiency that corrodes from within, the wastefulness that opportunists quietly profit from. The economy of blame feeds on itself, hollowing the field until nothing remains but repetition. Collapse is not sudden; it is recursive. Each attempt at correction doubles down on the logic of failure. Fascism, or extremity in any guise, depends on this oscillation—inside built by the assertion of an outside, identity anchored by perpetual opposition. The performance is infantile, the consequences catastrophic.
Dependency comes first. Systems define us before we name them. Communication comes before identity. We pretend that autonomy is prior, that our words contain the world. But the truth is reversed: the world contains our words, and us along with them. This inversion should demand humility. Instead, hubris multiplies, amplified now through technologies that bind and blind at once. Every act of sensitivity—fear, hope, love, rage—becomes leverage, folded into stratagems and clichés that echo through culture. Emotion is not denied; it is magnified, managed, instrumentalised.
The rhythm is the signal. Short shocks of fear. Long waves of hope. Loops that repeat until they feel inevitable. To breathe inside these cycles is to be drawn into their logic, even as one knows the futility. What thrives on insecurity cannot last. Sooner or later, the enemies run out. The system turns inward. And what was once projected outward as certainty dissolves into dust, curlicues of entropy on the wind.
Daedelus Kite 