When the world falls apart before your eyes, the pillars you once deemed immortal marble monuments of certainty begin to fracture.
A fissure within the fissure, like rot beneath polished wood, spreads without sound, a quiet mutiny against the illusion of permanence.
What was fortress was façade.
What was strength was scaffolding painted like stone.
And the cracks, they don’t destroy, they reveal. They unveil the cancer veiled in pride, growing in shadows, fed by neglect and dressed as tradition.
But though the mask is torn, it is not too late.
Even as temples tumble and the gods of comfort fall, there is time to wield the blade, cut away the rot, and build again, not from illusion, but from truth.
A rotting onion, buried deep, will split, decay, and reach for the sun once again.
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Chu The Cud 