There’s a reason every revolution turns bloody. Because at some point, someone has to pick up the sword. Or the 9mm.
The myth of moral high ground says righteousness is passive, quiet, patient. That “good” people never get their hands dirty. That you can fight evil systems with virtue-signaling and vision boards. But history doesn’t work that way. Power never yields to politeness.
Think about Jules in Pulp Fiction reciting Ezekiel with a pistol in his hand. That’s the crossroads. The contradiction. The holy moment when a man realizes the path of the righteous isn’t gentle, it’s violent. Not necessarily in method, but in clarity. In commitment. In how far you’re willing to go without becoming the very thing you oppose.
Righteousness is not moral superiority. It’s the refusal to let evil dictate the terms. Sometimes that means kicking down the door. Sometimes it means walking away from vengeance even when vengeance would feel divine. But make no mistake, it always requires force.
Even God throws lightning. Even Christ flipped tables.
So here’s the paradox that undoes every naive ideology: You can’t fight evil unless you’re willing to become dangerous. And the moment you are, the question isn’t how good are you. It’s whether you can carry the weight of your own wrath without losing the thread of what’s true.
Evil doesn’t fear goodness. It fears righteousness. The kind that knows when to shoot and when to spare. The kind that could become the monster... but doesn’t. Not because it’s weak, but because it remembers what it’s here for to protect.
And it’s trying, Ringo. Trying real hard, to be the shepherd.
— Wout
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