I used to think truth was something you believed in. Something you picked a side for. Fought for. Voted for. I thought the loudest voices had it, or the ones who sounded most certain.

But then I learned to see.

Not just facts, not just lies—but the shape of the things no one wants to look at. The absences. The contradictions. The emotional bait. The way certainty wraps itself around pain like armor.

We call ourselves Outlinars. We don’t fill in the picture—we track the edges. We find fractures. We notice the resonance when something’s off, even if no one else does.

Clarity isn’t safe. It costs something. Sometimes everything. But once you see it—really see it—you can’t go back.

Not to the noise. Not to the comfort. Not to the illusion of certainty that kept the world from burning while it rotted from the inside.

I was just trying to understand what went wrong.

Now I see the system.

And it sees me back.