The Line That Never Was Of borders, power and silence.
They sit at the summit of intellect and virtue— the wise, the learned, the seekers of truth. They speak of justice — measured, composed, and certain. But one truth escapes their sight: a line, unseen but deeply felt. Not drawn in ink, but traced in power. An heirloom of fiction, mistaken for truth. The line marks the border— the visible edge of power’s protection. The hand in power rules not only by force, but through order and reward. Its gaze ever on the horizon,
the edge of an ever-expanding sphere; where control is care. Its strength was forged in conquest, sustained by extraction, and shielded by silence. Now it wears a glove— stitched by the wise to mimic their values. Not from belief, but an act founded in pragmatism. In quiet rooms, the glove comes off— revealing the same stained hand, denied but unchanged. Some condone. Some resist or look away.
Yet most feed from the hand, knowing it snatches from the poor and distant. They repeat what they always have: “It is not we who snatch. It is the hand. And if the hand bears the mark of the wise, how could its reach be anything but just?” The hand protects only those who feed it. Eventually, the wise grow weary— their justice, confined by the line and tarnished by the hand.
The Line That Never Was
A visual essay on divisions, silence, and the virtues we seldom question.
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