Then there is the Way.
Consider the artist who spends a decade painting what the galleries want—soft landscapes, palatable abstractions. She has a path. She has income. She has catalogues. And then one night, drunk on cheap wine and the sheer weight of her own suffocation, she takes a palette knife to a canvas and carves out a violent, ugly, magnificent scar of a painting. That is the MF. It is the destruction of the acceptable in service of the true. Way - MF
And that release is not a tantrum. It is a surgical strike. It is a quiet, terrifying, absolute “No.” Then there is the Way
The MF is not a person. It is not an insult, though it can wear that mask. The MF is a force . It is the friction that wakes you up. It is the splinter in the palm of the hand that was too busy applauding. In the lexicon of the soul, “MF” is the sound of the world lying to you, and your own blood answering back. She has income
Cross it.