In the quietest pockets of existence, a stillness settles, and we are forced to ask: How far can our eyes truly see? Where do our steps genuinely lead? When will our ankles snap upon the very paths we labored to build? We endlessly wonder if God has a face, or if the stars possess a shape. Splendid questions, indeed.
The world—adults, especially—applauds these grand, sterile inquiries. Yet, they flinch when we turn the mirror inward and ask: Can our lips ever remain untainted by the cruel words that cast a sinful shadow over our elders?
Children, pure and unblemished, do not birth corruption from within. They breathe it in from the very air of the environments we build for them.
Imagine a boy standing in the heart of a chaotic crowd, watching adults wrapped in their violent, frantic conversations. His face is an untouched canvas; his eyes gleam with the fragile spark of curiosity. To be fair, he is nothing more than a newly awakened infant—a soul suddenly aware of its own pulse. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him.
Yet, when a heavy, careless stranger blindly crashes into him, the boy can only wince, falling hard against the unyielding earth. No words escape his lips. But from above...
"Damn it, you little bastard! Get out of my way!" barks the stranger.
The boy does not cry, though his eyes brim with tears born of sheer terror. From infancy, he was conditioned to fear the violent rhythms of human speech. Whenever his mother grew angry, demanding obedience, she ravenously forced him into submission through the sheer weapon of her voice. That is where he first learned fear.
But this stranger? This adult taught him something else entirely: to unleash the internal storm of human stress through the weapon of harsh words. Truly, there is no inherent sin in venting the heavy burdens a weary body carries.
We are not here to cast blame. Because as that boy grows, he learns that the human vessel does not operate on logic alone; it is fueled by emotion. No matter how desperately you try to cast your feelings aside, you remain you. You are simply hiding vast, untamed oceans of yourself beneath your skin.
And so, the boy grows up, his mind a spinning tape recorder, hoarding words. He learns that "dirty words" are not a static sin—they are a fluid language of survival.
"Idiot! Don't walk there!" he snaps years later, his voice harsh as a dog narrowly escapes the wheels of a passing car.
A dirty word? Undoubtedly.
Yet the resonance is pure, frantic, desperate love.
"You bastard! Stop laughing!" he tells his friends, a helpless smile tugging at his lips as a giggle escapes.
Foul language, once more. Yet it is joyful—a bridge between lonely souls.
But the world does not stay playful. The pressure builds beneath the skin.
He grows, he loves, and he breaks.
"I HAVE BEEN PATIENT ALL THIS TIME! AND THIS... THIS IS WHAT I GET?! YOU PIECE OF TRASH! YOU BRAZEN HARLOT! KICKING YOUR LEGS WIDE FOR ANOTHER MAN! YOU—!"
A sharp slap cuts the air. Profanity, born of a breaking point. His girl has been stolen by another. It is a cocktail of blinding betrayal and agony.
To escape the pain, he descends into the neon dark. He sits in a dimly lit club, attempting to drown his exhaustion in vices, trying to find any semblance of peace. He sees a woman at the bar, his mind twisted by resentment.
"Tch, lowly woman. What's your price? Maybe... we can hit a hotel, and break those breasts out of their cage."
A predatory whisper. He is angry, he is exhausted, and he will do absolutely anything to find a fleeting moment of numbness. To him, it is a coping mechanism. To the world looking on, it is vile.
But let us be honest: in this grand theater of existence, there were never any rules. We are taught myths—tales of Adam and Eve, rigid scripts of morality—but the cosmos is infinite and empty. You move, breathe, and think by the raw grace of your own instincts.
You are entirely alone inside the fortress of your own skull. Every insult and vulgarity that pierces your ears is merely passing wind; whether you remember them or let them fade is entirely your choice. Just because an intellectual in Academia decrees that vulgarity is beneath human dignity, it does not mean you must destroy yourself trying to be perfect. If you do, you become the very monster you weep over every night in your bed. Truly, everyone is a monster. No one is purely the prey.
A world entirely devoid of coarse language might seem peaceful to some. But a completely sterilized world would feel terribly flat, utterly numb.
Peace, in its truest sense, does not come from erasing bad words. Genuine stillness would require the total absence of life itself. No Earth. No planets. No us. Only the great, infinite void. That is the tranquility so many are desperately searching for. Not death. Just the beautiful, untamed void.
Every single day you have the option to die. But you can never choose to have never been born.
And because we are born, we must face the music of our choices.
The neon fades. The club disappears.
We are out on the damp, filth-ridden, mossy earth behind the venue. The consequences of the night have caught up.
"Please, don't die, you miserable bastard..." the boy weeps, holding a bloodied old man who tried to intervene in his chaos. "Don't die... I...—"
*BANG!*
A sudden, deafening gunshot shatters the night. The bullet tears clean through the boy's head. His weeping instantly dissolves into a horrific, gurgling wheeze. His body collapses onto the dirt. Beside him lies the broken corpse of the old man, his skull shattered, a detached eyeball resting loosely on the moss.
From the shadows steps the man who stole his girl—the one who heard the boy’s venomous words from earlier.
"Don't you ever dare touch my girl," the man growls, stepping over the boy's twitching frame. With a sickening, wet crunch, his boot grinds the stray eyeball into the mud, smearing it carelessly into the soil.
Indeed. Every word carries a consequence.
That is why the world constantly warns you to guard your tongue. Not because it is a holy commandment from a god that doesn't exist, but because a single word can sound entirely different depending on the ears it strikes.
When people warn you to be careful, they rarely know which specific word will trigger the avalanche. There is no boundary to the human voice, and no limit to the devastation a handful of words can bring.
Think what you will of this fragile existence. But never forget: words grow, they evolve, and they will wear whatever bloody label the world decides to brand them with.
