This censor is not evil — it is survival. No clan lasts long without rules. Yet survival has mutated into suffocation. We now censor the first twitch of joy, the honest flare of rage, the unsanctioned touch. We walk through days wearing a muzzle of our own making, forgetting who tied the knot.
Go now. Sniff the air. What do you really want? Not what you should want. What your bones want. Follow that for ten seconds. The rest will learn to keep up. End of piece. retour à l'instinct primaire non sans censure
But who writes the law? Not the state alone. Deeper: the internal censor, a little priest lodged behind the ribs. It whispers: too loud, too hungry, too strange, too much. It trims the howl to a murmur. It makes desire negotiable. It turns the body into a committee meeting. This censor is not evil — it is survival