The Blind Parade
The blind lead the blind. Not because they want to—but because it’s easier than admitting they can’t see.
This world is full of noise. Everyone has an opinion, a direction, a “truth” they swear by. But if you strip the shine off, most of them are just groping in the dark, pretending to know where they’re going. They hold the loudest torch, but it’s not fire—it’s a flicker of ego. They stumble, and the ones behind them stumble too.
And the worst part? They’re proud of it. Proud of being part of the parade, even as they march off a cliff.
The rot thrives because no one questions it. They call it normal. They call it progress. But really, it’s just blind hands dragging blind feet through the mud. People fear clarity. They fear the one person who doesn’t fall in line, the one who says, “Why are we even following this path?” Because real vision forces you to stop, think, and confront the lies you’ve swallowed.
I’m not here to follow. I’m not here to clap for the parade. I don’t need a torch to see—I’ll carve my own path in the dark if I have to. I don’t need to be led by someone who’s never looked at their own reflection and asked if they’re even fit to guide anyone.
I’m not the blind, and I won’t be led by them. If that makes me the outsider, so be it. I’d rather walk alone with my eyes open than be another follower celebrating the fall.
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