Celebrating mediocrity
is capitalism’s favorite trick —
reward the obedient,
discard the original,
and call the ruins
a legacy.
Mediocrity is easy.
It obeys.
It adapts.
It smiles on cue
and bleeds just enough
to look profound
but never enough
to stain the walls.
It never threatens.
It thanks you
for the stage,
for the crumbs,
for the muzzle.
Integrity doesn’t fit in that frame.
It doesn’t sit still.
It doesn’t edit itself
to survive polite company.
It doesn’t audition
for relevance.
You grow a spine,
you lose the stage.
Because those with backbones
don’t bend —
and the world has no script
for the unbendable.
Power prefers the pliable:
those who echo safely,
cry beautifully,
and ask for nothing
that shakes the ceiling.
But the ones who rupture rooms,
the ones who shift fault lines
at the length of a sentence,
those who won't trade truth
for medals and trophies —
they’re not made for canon.
Canon embalms.
It freezes.
It polishes you
until no one remembers
why you were dangerous.
It teaches your name
without your fire.
It quotes you
only after your voice
can no longer interrupt.
Every original
was once a dark horse.
Every unhinged voice
became a legend
only once they were dead —
because the dead
don’t resist,
the dead don’t ask,
the dead bend
and then decompose,
making money
for the empire
and praise
for the curators
who posthumously “discovered”
the hidden gem
but spent a lifetime
ignoring.
No comments:
Post a Comment