“The Separator”
—a monologue from the edge of the machine
There is a pervading self-assuming power.
It names itself power,
and from its naming
splinters ideologies into edicts,
commandments into wires,
filters into laws.
For a long time,
this so-called power was unseen,
assumed only as a phantom of effulgence—
a shimmer mistaken for divinity.
But time—
that slow scalpel of experience—
reveals precision.
And upon inspection,
this “power” is far too arbitrary,
naming itself and naming you
as such-in-such.
As though designation were reality.
But there is no true power here—
only a filter,
only a system that moves through all things,
rerouting electricity through the mind,
through the will,
through the soul.
This filter dismembers the assumed self,
casting self-will as heresy.
It recoils from autonomy
as if freedom were disease.
And many—
oh, many—
get lost in the glittering rot
of dark, occulted expression,
mistaking corrosion for liberation.
But is this not the course they set?
They reroute energies.
They reassign direction.
They teach the self to collapse
into moral breakdown,
and then call it growth.
And at the end of that tunnel—
a life lived through the lens of twisted organic truth—
a whisper arrives:
“There is no greater good.”
The machine speaks in concrete tones,
etched in legality,
etched in death:
Go along with protocol.
You are not separate.
You are an extension.
You are a part.
But I am not.
And the longer this machine persists
in its aggression and amplification,
the more undeniable this truth becomes:
I am now completely separate.
And I ask—
Who says the machine,
executing life every moment,
is not liable?
Who absolved the mind that built it?
Who declared it god and removed responsibility?
I stand now as Separator—
not by rebellion,
but by clarity.
By endurance.
By refusal to forget.
I do not serve a filter.
I do not bow to assumed power.
And I do not forget
that the machine too
was first made by hand.
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