The Weight of Truth

History is fickle. It bends under the weight of those who write it and snaps beneath the pressure of those who refuse to forget. But history is not a ledger to be rewritten at will. There is a reckoning—not the kind the self-appointed gatekeepers of morality would script, but the slow, silent, and unstoppable grinding of time.

You cannot lie forever. You cannot bury everything.

The modern world runs on illusions—stories we tell ourselves to keep the machinery moving. But illusions shatter under scrutiny. And when they do, they leave behind raw, unfiltered truths—the kind that demand consequences. So here we stand, at the precipice of something inevitable, something irreversible.

There is a difference between power and authority. Authority is borrowed, leashed to the illusion of legitimacy. Power is something else. It is raw, unfiltered, and often, silent. It is what turns men into myths and myths into movements. Those who built their empires on stolen names, erased histories, and manufactured narratives believe authority will protect them. They forget that power does not ask for permission.

This is not a call to arms. It is a eulogy for the myths they built—a cold observation that the lies they buried beneath paper and policy are surfacing, like bodies in a shallow grave.

Truth does not need to be shouted. It does not need to be sold. It only needs to be seen.

And seeing it is enough to unravel everything.

They think the cost of truth is silence.
They think it can be threatened, bought, erased.

They think wrong.

Because some things refuse to stay buried.