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.
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
The wolf does not fear its own hunger. The river does not ask permission to flood. And you — you still carry a spine that remembers the jungle, lungs built for screaming, fingers made for grasping not just touchscreens but fur, stone, flame. But who writes the law
The Unmuzzled Howl
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. It whispers: too loud, too hungry, too strange, too much
The retour à l’instinct primaire non sans censure is not a permission slip to destroy. It is a demand: feel first, think second — and let the censor watch, but not rule. It is the shudder of a hand reaching for food without asking, the sudden laugh in a silent room, the naked run through midnight grass. It is the word spoken before the filter, the tear not wiped away, the anger that clarifies instead of corrodes.