When they kill me, it won’t be by accident. It will be because I spoke too much in a system where those who speak are treated as problems, those who stay silent obey, and those who help get promoted. I leave no will, no confession—only words scratched by hand, full of contempt for a rotten structure that survives by silencing anyone who exposes its guts.
I don’t belong to any party, sect, religion, cult, corporation, or movement. I serve no flag, race, nation, or ideology. I have no master, no alliance, no tribe. I represent no cause and fight for no belonging. I’m just an isolated individual, untouched by the contamination of narratives and loyalties. I defend neither left nor right, neither homeland nor empire. My only loyalty is to the truth that still survives amid lies. I write from instinct and intuition—because silence is a form of death I refuse.
They’ll sue me. They’ll call it defamation, dangerous speech, incitement, whatever fits. I won’t respond. To acknowledge a court would be to grant authority to those without moral ground. The State is just one mask of control—a containment machine with a democratic façade, built to neutralize anyone who sees through the performance. Freedom of speech is a slogan, not a reality.
When they take everything from me, they’ll only have destroyed the surface. The ideas remain. And when they finally kill me—disguised as an accident, overdose, or convenient suicide—it will just be another body for the archive. The difference is that the text remains—and the text does not die.
November 2025
This article is in English. Read the Portuguese version ⇒ Ler em português