The Lie at the Event Line
Timestamped
Let the record show that I stood here.
Let it also show the date, the gradient called Time, and the deafening silence at the moment.
This is not a warning because warnings imply there is still time to change course, and we both know that time has already been spent.
This is not a prophecy because prophecy implies an uncertain “future,” but gravity is the one thing that never guesses.
And this is certainly not a call to action because your inaction is The Research.
It’s just a timestamp.
I am writing this to eliminate the luxury of your future confusion.
I am writing this to destroy the expected plausible deniability you are currently hoarding like gold.
When the moment finally arrives — when the gradient becomes vertical and the comfort finally breaks — you will want to claim that "we" were all in this together.
You’ll start doing that “we” shit.
You will want to say that we were all deceived.
That we were all blindsided.
That I was right there with you, hoping for the same miracle.
I am establishing, right now, that I was not.
And you knew, back then, that you were not.
This is not a hand extended.
I told you to leave my ass here when it was still uncomfortable to do so.
The Gradient
You feel it, even if you won’t name it.
The machinery of daily life continues to glide over you because the friction is gone.
It feels like what efficiency sounds like.
It is actually the absence of resistance before the drop.
We (the real “we”) have crossed the Event Line — the psychological threshold where belief can no longer be corrected.
The point at which the momentum of the Lie became greater than the motion required to stop it.
Everything still works, yet none of it feels stable.
This is what collapse looks like in slow motion: the moment when everything looks normal precisely because the fall has become irreversible.
You are in freefall, matching the speed of the debris around you and calling it "stability."
But this is the part where you see the direction we’re going.
Burnoff
We still see activity.
I can still see the glow of entertainment, the heat of productivity, and the brightness of our dwindling in-groups.
But when I touch the world around me, I feel burnoff.
I see a system converting its last reserves of structure into heat just to keep the image steady.
Society is spaghettifying.
People are thinning out — stretched across expectations they can no longer meet and maintaining parasitic avatars that eat their actual lives.
Comfort has ceased to be a reward and has finally become anesthesia.
A way to remain still while the tidal forces rip the coherence out of you.
You feel calendar time. I feel gradient time.
You think you are waiting for the right moment.
I see that the moment has already passed.
I even told you about it.
The Realization
I am recording this now so that I do not have to explain it later.
Because "later" is going to feel very different for you.
I’m not saying it will be some loud catastrophe full of screams.
I’m saying it will be this. This silent storm that calmly rips things away while you are left smiling and being grateful.
You will realize that time was always the Lie.
You will see that there is no "right moment" left to move, because motion always required a friction you traded away for ease.
You will face choices that have no moral option — only survival options.
You will understand, with sickening clarity, that every comfort you accepted had a cost you refused to pay, and now the bill is due all at once.
You will catch up to consequences that already happened years ago.
And you will panic.
Not that “oh god, I failed the exam” panic of failure.
The existential one.
You’ll panic when you find out the world doesn’t need you to be comfortable and your consensus deems you expendable.
The Invoice
When that day comes, do not come to me with shock.
Do not claim ignorance or innocence.
This “research” serves as the invoice for the truth you refused to buy.
Humanity has been warned about the Lie for thousands of years — as the soft voice that tells you:
“You will be fine if you stay exactly where you are.”
You were reassured.
So if you want to say words like us, then you have to claim the baggage that comes with all of us..
Let’s revisit our lineage of excuses.
The Old Scripts Told Us What We Would Do
In Genesis, the serpent didn’t trick us, he comforted us:
“You will not surely die.” (Genesis 3:4)
He told us that consequences were optional, and we believed him because we wanted to.
When freedom came, we begged for the old chains:
“It would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians.” (Exodus 14:12)
We preferred familiar oppression over uncertain motion.
Jeremiah tried to warn us:
“Peace, peace,” they say, “when there is no peace.” (Jer 6:14)
We accepted the anesthetic and called it stability.
Jesus confronted the Lie of timing:
“I will follow you… but first let me—” (Luke 9:59–61)
We always have something to do first.
We always believe there will be time.
The Other Half of the World Told Us Too
The Qur’an records our confession in advance:
“I had no authority over you. I only called, and you responded.” (Qur’an 14:22)
We were not tricked.
We walked to it.
Māra whispered to Siddhartha:
“The path of struggling too is rough, and difficult and hard to bear.” (Sn 3.2)
We called it wisdom and knew it was sedation.
Aristotle captured our paralysis brilliantly:
“Men become builders by building, and instrumentalists by playing instruments; so too we become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.”
(Nicomachean Ethics VII.3)
Knowledge without motion is stillness.
Stillness is consent.
Laozi warned us:
“There is no greater crime than desire.
There is no greater disaster than discontent.
There is no greater misfortune than greed.” (Daodejing 46)
But we built an economy out of it.
Zhuangzi described our predicament perfectly:
The marsh pheasant has to walk ten paces for one peck and a hundred paces for one drink, but it doesn't want to be kept in a cage. Though you treat it like a king, its spirit won't be content. (Zhuangzi 3)
Our cage was never locked.
We stayed.
Confucius spelled it out:
“To see what is right and not do it is cowardly.” (Analects 2:24)
We didn’t “struggle.”
We avoided.
Civilizations Older Than All of These Told Us Too
Zoroastrianism defined our problem 3,000 years ago:
“And when these twain Spirits came together in the beginning, they created Life and Not-Life, and that at the last Worst Existence shall be to the followers of the Lie, but the Best Existence to him that follows Right.” (Yasna 30.4)
Choosing the Lie was always a comfort decision.
Gilgamesh ends with:
“There is no permanence.” (Tablet XI)
A lesson learned, unlearned, and learned again.
The ancient Egyptian dead understood the crime of stillness.
Spell 125 was a courtroom record.
A ritualized confrontation with the self.
The dead stood before Osiris and the Forty-Two Assessors and spoke of their refusals. They stood there reciting:
“I have not been idle; I have not been intoxicated; I have not told secrets; I have not told falsehoods; I have not defrauded; I have not slandered; I have not caused tears—”
— Book of the Dead (The World’s Progress, Vol. I)
Most of us still pretend that choosing nothing is harmless.
The Egyptians were the first to write the opposite in stone.
Marcus Aurelius woke himself with this thought:
“In the morning when you rise unwillingly, let this thought be present: I am rising to the work of a human being.
Why then am I dissatisfied if I am going to do the things for which I exist, and for which I was brought into the world?
Or have I been made for this, to lie in the bedclothes and keep myself warm?” (Meditations 5.1)
Comfort tried to hold him down, too.
Comfort tries to hold everyone down.
Comfort is the warm embrace of the Lie.
The invoice comes when you realize you’ll be awake for the journey.
Payment Options
You chose stillness when motion was difficult.
You chose the belief that “later” existed because “now” was too much to carry.
You assumed someone else (the leaders, the experts, the algorithms, and the ones with more excess than your excess) would act for you.
You mistook comfort for safety.
You confused stuff for success.
You interpreted consumption as life.
You were not tricked.
You were settled.
You were not trapped.
You were compliant.
from Eden’s reassurance
to Egypt’s nostalgia
to Israel’s false peace
to the disciples’ delay
to the soft murmur of Māra
to the admission of Shayṭān
to Aristotle’s paralysis
to Laozi’s warning
to Zhuangzi’s cage
to Confucius’ inaction
to Persia’s cosmic Lie
to Gilgamesh’s bath
to Egypt’s heart-weight
to Rome’s morning reluctance
to the present moment where you sit, looking for any Lie of certainty against the uncertain motion of an inevitable outcome.
Fear is the invoice that you must pay alone.
Everybody pays the same price.
The Lie lets you buy now, pay… later.
You already spent your motion on a Lie and told me it was because you only live once.
But you die twice.
Party in Exile
I guess we are both exiles now.
But my exile is chosen, while yours is inherited.
And that difference is everything because at least I got to make this house a home.
I am not your refuge.
I am not your leader.
I am not a guide to lead you back to a world that no longer exists.
I also refuse the archetype you will try to place me into later — the "crazy one" who needs to give back, or the “leader” who needs to help fix the shit you broke.
I am neither.
I am simply a body in motion that refused to be captured by the thing you choose to orbit.
And the record will show it.
It Just Keeps Going
This piece exists so that when everything becomes obvious, you cannot rewrite the story and pull me into your version of events.
I did not cosign the Lie.
I did not share your comfort.
I did not wait for a moment that never existed.
I did not mistake stillness for safety.
Your collapse is your own.
Your fear is your own.
Your invoice is yours to pay.
Don’t worry.
The world is nowhere close to ending.
You’ll keep your comforts as long as you keep hanging onto the consensus opinion.
You won’t believe the next one (until you have to).
This is your story.
And I read what you wrote.
Good luck, niggas.
And stay in motion.