Dogma: The Mind’s Funeral

Two blindfolded skulls bound in black metal stare into silence as red smoke rises behind them—symbolizing obedience beyond death. A stark, poetic metaphor for dogma’s grip on legacy and thought. Memento Mori meets silent control.

Dogma says: this is the truth.
Do not question it.
And when you don’t question it…
you stop thinking.

Dogma isn’t always written down.
Sometimes it’s inherited like a disease.
Sometimes it’s taught with a smile.
Most of the time, it’s never said aloud —
Because everyone around you already believes it.

Dogma is the mind’s funeral.
It sounds like certainty.
But it feels like silence.
If you want to be free —
Start by doubting what you’ve never dared to question.

Not all prisons have bars.
Some are built from inherited beliefs.
Some are made of traditions no one remembers choosing.
Some are stitched into your name,
your gender,
your God,
your guilt.

You don’t need chains
when the fear of exile
keeps everyone obedient.

They won’t burn you at the stake anymore.
Now they just unfollow.
Now they just roll their eyes.
Now they say:
"You’ve changed."
As if that’s a curse.

But evolution is betrayal —
to the system that kept you small.
To the family that told you who you are.
To the culture that sold you comfort
in exchange for your voice.

You want to be free?
Then disappoint the ones who benefit from your silence.
Unlearn what they called “normal.”
Bury the script they handed you.

Truth is a feral thing.
It lives outside the fence.
And you —
you were not born to be tamed.

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