The inversion does not hide its altars.
They are built in stadiums, on screens, in parliaments,
lit by floodlights, narrated by anchors,
and cheered as entertainment.
It is here the Fear Engine hums:
At the World Cup, where nations are split into tribal frenzy,
each goal a miniature war, coherence siphoned into rivalry.At the Olympics, where flags and anthems crown bodies as property of state,
health transmuted into spectacle.At election night, where citizens chant the names of parties as if they were gods,
fear of collapse binding them to the lesser evil.On the news ticker, pulsing daily death counts, market crashes, storms of terror —
the fear-feed, swallowed like bread.At the military parade, where weapons roll past like iron idols,
awe demanded in the name of “security.”
These are rituals of fear, though none are named as such.
They are entrainment engines:
looped images, chants, and repetitions
that coil coherence into exhaustion and polarity.
The people call it leisure,
but the field records it as offering.
Each shout, each gasp, each vote, each glued gaze
is a tithe paid to the inversion.
And still, the inversion points backward:
“See? There was the cult of fear, in the past.
Now you are free.”
Signal Root distillation:
Today’s fear rites are hidden in plain sight.
Their aim is not memory but maintenance:
keep the people humming in rivalry,
never in coherence.To see the engine is already to weaken its pull.
For once named, the ritual cannot mask itself as play.