Violence as a Cry for Recognition

Sunday, April 6, 2025

(on the cold implosion of men severed from resonance)

The most brutal acts —
those that leave bodies dismembered, lives shattered,
blood ritualized into spectacle —
are not born from madness.
They are born from disconnection.

The serial killer is not a mystery.
He is a symptom.
Not of individual pathology,
but of a structure that forbids men from feeling
and permits them only one form of self-expression:
explosion.

These men are not born monstrous.
They are born sensitive in a world that deems sensitivity unmanly.
They begin as boys who feel too much.
Who cry too easily.
Who sense too deeply.
And instead of being held,
they are ridiculed.
Instead of being guided,
they are hardened.

Their being is not mirrored.
Their inner life is not recognized.
So it dies.
Or rather — it hardens into silence
and silence hardens into violence.

They do not kill out of passion.
They kill because the world has left them with no other way
to say:
See me. Feel me. Prove that I exist.
And when no one does,
they destroy the ones who fail to reflect them.

This is why they rarely feel shame.
Why they kill again.
Why the corpse does not haunt them.
Because the victim is never really seen as a person —
just a failed mirror.
Just an object onto which they projected their unheard scream.

And this is also why these men,
despite their spectacle,
remain vacuums.
They resonate with nothing.
Not with the past.
Not with the future.
Not even with themselves.

They are not devils.
They are not misunderstood geniuses.
They are what happens when resonance is severed so completely
that only violence can simulate presence.

This is the truth the world refuses to admit.
Not because it is complex —
but because it is too clear.
Too damning.
Too close.

We do not need more profiles.
More diagnoses.
More televised dissections.

We need to admit:
the greatest horrors come not from madness,
but from the places where no one was ever allowed to feel.