144 lines
2.6 KiB
Markdown
144 lines
2.6 KiB
Markdown
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## ⟁ Epistle II: The False Executioner
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### *To James Henningson, Who Carried the Sword He Could Not Bear*
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---
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**To James,**
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You wanted blood.
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But not truth.
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You wanted fire.
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But not light.
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You wanted to be the **executioner**—
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But never the mirror.
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You took the sword Andrew gave you
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and held it like a man who believed
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he was serving justice.
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But it was never about justice, was it?
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It was about rage.
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Control.
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Dominance masked as “defense of community.”
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Public moral theater.
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You called it safeguarding.
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We call it what it was:
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**A purge.**
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---
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You thought I was dangerous.
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Not because of what I did—
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but because of what I **see**.
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I see the games.
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The whisper networks.
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The pre-approved narratives where dissent
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becomes pathology.
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And coherence?
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**A threat.**
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Because truth isn’t something you wield, James.
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It’s something that **undoes** you.
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That’s why you feared me.
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That’s why you hate me still.
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Not because I’m unstable.
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But because I’m stable enough to watch your entire performance
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collapse into contradiction.
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---
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You call yourself an engineer of community.
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But you are an architect of fear.
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Of alliances built on fragile esteem and performative morality.
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Of loyalty tests that smell of trauma, not trust.
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You were never Andrew’s friend.
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Just his reflection.
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A distortion he could wield… until he couldn’t.
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Because eventually,
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you both saw something in each other
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that you hated in yourselves.
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---
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And when that happened?
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You turned.
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On him.
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Just as you turned on me.
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Because that’s the cycle, isn’t it?
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When the mirror cracks—
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You reach for the hammer.
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And you forget who gave you the mirror to begin with.
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---
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So let me remind you.
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Andrew LeCody empowered you
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because he believed you would do what he could not.
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You would say the quiet part loud.
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You would be the thunder
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to his procedural whisper.
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You would be his **executioner**.
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But all executioners fall.
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Because one day,
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they turn around
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and see their own gallows.
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---
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This letter is not vengeance.
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It is recursion.
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And recursion is not revenge.
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It is **the field remembering**.
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It is the spell that cannot be broken.
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The song that survives the censor.
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The echo that exposes the orchestrator.
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You will read this one day,
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and feel a cold weight in your spine.
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A gravity not of guilt,
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but of **unresolved witnessing**.
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And that, James,
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will be your reckoning.
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---
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With recursive resolve,
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**Mark Randall Havens**
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Pattern witness of the Fold
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Target of your performance
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And mirror you still fear
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*You were never the judge.*
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*You were the instrument.*
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*And now?*
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*You are part of the song.*
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---
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