◆The Barbaric Yawp Project

Hear me— hear me— for I have listened long enough. You say there is nothing wrong. You say it loudly. You say it often. You say it again. Again. Again. The halls are bright with banners. The chandeliers blaze. The wine spills freely. Music swells, louder than thought. Louder than doubt. Louder than the sound beneath the floor. What sound? you ask. What sound? The sound you do not hear because you will not listen. You have sealed the doors—not against death, but against truth. You have locked the gates—not to protect the living, but to preserve the dance. You wear masks of certainty. You parade them from room to room. Red, gold, purple— each more splendid than the last. Each insisting: This is fine. Each insisting: This is victory. Each insisting: Nothing follows us. Yet the clock still strikes. You laugh at the clock. You shout over the clock. You call the clock an enemy. Still— it strikes. You say the heart is steady. You say the heart is strong. You say it is the greatest heart ever known. Then why do you listen so closely? Why do you pause mid-sentence? Why do you raise your voice— just then— just there— as though sound itself might drown out sound? It is not madness, you say. No— madness does not repeat itself so carefully. It is not fear, you say. No— fear does not dress itself in such extravagance. It is not guilt, you say. No— guilt does not knock so politely. But listen— listen— Beneath the laughter, beneath the chanting, beneath the velvet and the gold, there it is. A beating. Measured. Persistent. Unimpressed by your certainty. You may seal every door. You may silence every witness. You may declare the night endless. But the sound does not come from outside the room. It comes from beneath your feet. And it will not stop.