The Daunting Dossier: A Study of Human Subjugation and Repression as a Living Work of Art on Planet Earth

The canvas of our times is not painted in oil or acrylic but in systems, beliefs, and the invisible rules we’ve agreed upon without ever truly consenting. Humanity, in all its fractured brilliance, has become its own policing and governing force. We have built a thousand hierarchies, layered one atop the other, each claiming truth while rooted in subjugation and repression.

What began as survival became tradition. What became tradition turned to law. Law hardened into the silent architecture of the mind until the masses carried their own chains as though they were ornaments of honor. And so, the picture was painted—slowly, meticulously—upon the great canvas of history.

I see this picture as a Tree of Life, but not the one of ancient mystics where all rivers of being converge in harmony. No, this one has become a treehouse of captivity, where we live and dream inside its wooden walls, mistaking the trap for shelter, mistaking the leaves for freedom.

And here lies the question no one dares to ask: How can an artist truly be an artist when they follow the masses?The masses build from fear and preservation. The artist builds from revelation. If we walk the well-worn path of the crowd, we do not create—we replicate. We decorate the same walls of the same house of subjugation instead of tearing them down to let the untamed light in. The artist’s true role is not to echo what already is—but to expose, to provoke, to peel back the layers of illusion so something unrecognizable to the old world can emerge.

Earth itself should become a case study for other planetary cultures and societies—a living exhibit of what happens when intelligence builds prisons of its own making. Let them see how a species crowned with creativity and reason became trapped in hierarchies of its own design. Let them study how fear disguised as order gave birth to systems that suffocate the very beings who built them.

An artist knows this paradox intimately. We create, yes—but creation, in its rawest sense, comes from something older, wilder, and truer than the mind of any so-called creator. Some of us call ourselves gods of our small worlds, but I dare say: I am more than a god. I come from the pristine waters of the ALL, the great abyss, the Mother of forms and the producer of chaos-born beings.

Art at its core, does not preserve the world—it removes it, allowing the unknown to breathe.