Truth is impartial. The ego is personal. Truth seeks what is; the ego seeks what feels good. This core conflict underlies why truth is often not only rejected but attacked.
Truth, by its nature, is not designed to entertain the ego. It doesn’t flatter, it doesn’t conform. It simply is. Many people say they want the truth, but unconsciously, they want confirmation, not transformation. Most people associate truth with comfort. They want the truth to feel good. But the truth often demands letting go of illusions, identities, and crutches. When truth dismantles cherished beliefs or confronts inner shadows, it feels like betrayal.
Truth acts like a mirror. People who aren’t ready to see themselves blame the mirror for the reflection. This is where psychic pain enters the conversation. When truth triggers internal conflict—exposing unresolved trauma, hypocrisy, or cognitive dissonance—people may project that pain onto the source of the truth, even if it’s God.
When Galileo Galilei supported Copernicus’s claim that the Earth revolved around the Sun, he wasn’t merely introducing a new scientific observation but dismantling an entire theological and cultural ego structure. At the time, the Church held immense authority and propagated a geocentric worldview that placed humanity at the center of creation. This belief wasn’t just a religious doctrine but a foundational pillar of human significance and divine order. Galileo’s heliocentric model, though scientifically sound, posed a direct threat to this comforting illusion. Accepting his truth meant confronting the possibility that human beings were not the cosmic focal point—a deeply unsettling notion for a society whose power and purpose were rooted in that idea. As a result, rather than embracing the evidence, the Church condemned Galileo, subjecting him to the Inquisition and placing him under house arrest. The response illustrates a timeless pattern: people often claim to seek truth, but when that truth threatens their status, beliefs, or identity, they resist it. They truly crave not truth itself but continuity in their established narratives—truth only when it affirms, not when it transforms.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s call for racial equality compelled white Americans to confront the uncomfortable reality of systemic injustice. While many professed support for the ideal of equality, that support often vanished when it required actual change—social restructuring, relinquishing privilege, or facing the painful truth of complicity in a racially oppressive system. The comforting illusion that “we’re already equal” proved far more palatable than acknowledging the enduring and institutional nature of racism. King’s message was not rejected because it was untrue, but because it demanded self-examination and accountability. His insistence on truth over comfort provoked not only societal discomfort but also violent resistance, culminating in his assassination. His fate underscores a profound human tendency: when truth threatens ego, identity, or power, even a message rooted in love and justice can be met with hostility.
Socrates, one of history’s greatest philosophers, was ultimately sentenced to death by the Athenian state, not for crimes in the truest sense, but for disturbing the comfort of society’s illusions. He was charged with “corrupting the youth” and “impiety.” Yet, these accusations masked a more profound truth: Socrates held up a mirror to Athenian society and revealed its contradictions, ignorance, and moral laziness. Through his relentless questioning—now known as the Socratic Method—he didn’t preach answers; he led others to confront the inconsistencies in their thinking. He made no grand claims of wisdom, famously declaring he only knew that he knew nothing. But this humility made his insights all the more piercing.
What enraged many wasn’t that Socrates lied, but that he didn’t. He exposed uncomfortable truths that the powerful and complacent weren’t ready to acknowledge. His presence disrupted the illusion of virtue, honor, and wisdom that many Athenians held about themselves and their democracy. Essentially, he became a living reminder that they were not as enlightened as they believed. Socrates described himself as a gadfly sent by the gods to sting the sluggish horse of the state—to provoke, awaken, and urge critical reflection. But society chose to silence him instead of appreciating this call to deeper awareness. The mirror he held was too sharp, too revealing.
If you blame the one who speaks hard truths, ask why. Are they causing harm or simply refusing to soothe your ego? Are they wrong or forcing you to see something within yourself or your world that you’ve avoided? Truth-tellers often become scapegoats not because they are dangerous liars, but because they are hazardous mirrors. If your first reaction is to condemn them, pause and ask: Is the pain in their words, or what those words reveal about me? Rejecting the mirror is not to escape the truth; it is only to delay your awakening.
When truth stirs the wounds we’ve buried—be it trauma, contradiction, or shame—we don’t confront the pain. We cast it outward, onto the messenger, the mirror, even God Himself.” — Tore Maras
How do good people become evil?
There is a tragic irony in how people turn against God, not because He is absent, but because He refuses to control. This is not abandonment; it is divine respect. True love, especially divine love, does not micromanage. It does not smother with constant intervention. God gives us tools, guidance, insight, presence, and truth in His wisdom—but not a leash. He offers growth, not guarantees. And yet, this very freedom- the sacred gift of agency—is often reinterpreted by the insecure heart as indifference. When God does not “rescue” on demand, many don’t just lose faith in Him—they lose faith in themselves. And that is where evil is born.
This descent begins not with hatred, but with expectation. We expect God to fix what we refuse to confront. We want a divine hand to sweep away the storm, but we recoil when it merely hands us an oar. In that moment, the ego confuses love with neglect, and silence with absence. Like children angry at parents who let them struggle to stand, we blame the one who believes in our ability to rise. But God’s silence is not a void—it is a mirror. It asks: Will you believe in yourself the way I believe in you?
And when that question is too painful—when we feel unworthy, weak, or abandoned—we project. We lash out not because God failed us, but because He dared to trust us. Instead of facing the terrifying possibility that we can change, we resent the one who insists we must. In doing so, we confuse God’s love with betrayal, and His patience with punishment. That misinterpretation is the seed of rebellion. That is where we begin to hate good, not because it is false, but because it refuses to conform to our wounds.
Imagine you have a friend—not just any friend, but one who truly saw you when no one else did. They never smothered you. They didn’t try to control your every move. Instead, they gave you space, trusted your strength, and offered guidance when you asked for it. They poured love into you, sometimes with harsh critique, others without loud declarations. They challenged you when you were slipping. They believed in who you could become, even when you didn’t. But because they didn’t fix everything for you—because they didn’t sweep in to rescue you from every hardship—you began to resent them.
You mistook their trust in your strength as abandonment. You mistook their patience for punishment. And slowly, that misinterpretation took root. You wanted relief, not growth. You wanted comfort, not transformation. And when your friend, heart heavy, stepped back, stopped calling, stopped showing up the way they used to—not because they stopped loving you, but because they knew it was your turn to walk forward, you felt betrayed. The silence stung. Not because it was cruel, but because it revealed that you hadn’t yet learned to stand without leaning.
And in that silence, something darker crept in. You started listening to voices you once knew were wrong—the ones who always hated your friend. The ones who mocked their integrity, twisted their words, and cast them as arrogant, rigid, or fake. And because you were hurting, because the truth they carried felt too heavy to hold, you sided with those voices. Not because you believed them, but because it was easier than admitting your friend never failed you. You just weren’t ready to rise.
This is how good becomes vilified. This is how love gets mistaken for control, and truth gets twisted into offense. Your friend didn’t abandon you—they gave you every tool, every truth, every ounce of love you needed to elevate. But you wanted a shortcut. And when they wouldn’t give you that, you let your pain turn into blame.
And now you sit in the company of their enemies, repeating their lies, because it’s easier than facing the mirror your friend once held up for you. But deep down, you know: they didn’t walk away. You stopped showing up for the love that required something of you.
That’s not just how friendships fall apart. That’s how evil is born—when we turn against the good that loved us most, simply because it asked us to grow.
Evil is not born in darkness—it is born in disappointment, when the soul turns on what once gave it hope. When people target God, truth, or goodness, it’s often because those things demand more than comfort—they require courage. And when courage fails, blame takes its place. But the real betrayal is not of God but the self. We were given dignity, agency, and the silent presence of love. To call that abandonment is to curse the tools meant to free us. And once that curse is spoken, evil finds its voice.
The origin of hate toward God and truth is rarely born from evil intentions. It is born from pain, unmet expectations, and the tension between what we want love to be and what love truly is. People don’t wake up one day and decide to hate God or reject truth—they feel abandoned. They confuse silence for absence, distance for disinterest. In truth, God’s presence does not always announce itself with intervention. Sometimes He is most present when He appears most absent, because divine love is not a controlling force but a freeing one. But when someone expects love to obey, to conform to their wounds and timing, anything less than immediate relief feels like betrayal. The ego demands a conditional God: “Love me on my terms, heal me when I cry, give meaning without making me dig.” But true divine love transcends our personal preferences. It asks us to step up, not sit back.
This misalignment between expectation and reality has ancient roots. In Scripture, the Israelites’ journey in the wilderness offers a clear example. After being delivered from slavery in Egypt, after witnessing miracles, provision, and divine leadership, they still turned bitter. They grumbled against Moses, and in doing so, complained against God. Despite the manna from heaven, the parting of the sea, and pillars of cloud and fire guiding them, they saw hardship and believed they had been forsaken. They wanted the Promised Land without enduring the desert. When they didn’t get comfort on demand, they began to hate the very One who had set them free. They longed to return to bondage simply because it was predictable. In doing so, they turned against truth, not because it was false, but because it wasn’t easy.
Similarly, the Qur’an recounts the story of Iblis (Satan), who, despite his deep knowledge and long worship of God, rebelled when asked to bow to Adam. Iblis did not doubt God’s existence—he rejected His command. He could not accept that God’s love and truth would elevate another creature above him. His hatred wasn’t for God’s being, but for the nature of God’s justice and will, which didn’t align with his pride. This is how ego can transform disappointment into rebellion. Iblis saw himself as deserving of favor, and when God’s plan did not cater to that belief, he cursed the Creator. This was not a denial of God—it was hatred born from wounded expectation and bruised entitlement.
We see this same dynamic play out in human relationships. Imagine a friend who shows you love not by indulging you, but by calling you higher. They support you, listen, and guide you—but they also hold you accountable. They pose questions like “Are you sure this is the right way?”, “Do you think your husband is cheating on you?” when they realize you are unaware of issues, mistakes, or events occurring in your life. They don’t fix your problems for you, or give you direct answers to things that are absurd and sound insane, because they want you to see it yourself so YOU can grow, because they believe you can grow through them. At first, you’re grateful. You admire their strength, their clarity. But doubt creeps in when your life becomes difficult, and they don’t rush in to save you in the way you imagined. You start to see their silence as abandonment. Their boundaries begin to feel like rejection. Eventually, you are siding with those who have always misunderstood them, echoing the criticisms you once defended them against. Not because they changed, but because you did. Because your pain looked for a place to land, you placed the blame on them instead of facing yourself. You forgot that their love was never meant to carry you forever—it was meant to lift you until you could walk.
This is how love that does not obey becomes a scapegoat. When we don’t get the outcome we want—whether from God, truth, or another person—we sometimes lash out at the very source of our potential. It’s easier to curse the light than to admit we were blind. It’s easier to hate what asks us to grow than to admit we feared the growing. But those who stay-those who choose to persist through silence, who love truth even when it hurts, who don’t abandon God when He doesn’t show up like a genie—discover something sacred. They learn that God was never gone. He was never punishing them. He was walking with them the entire time, not rescuing them from life, but walking them through it.
And that realization—the one that comes after the anger, disappointment, and long dark night—transforms rebellion into reverence. When we stop expecting love to cater to our wounds and start trusting it to heal them, we see that the silence was never empty. It was a sacred space being made for us to rise.
Disillusionment is at the heart of the “blackpill” spiral, but not with the system alone. It begins with a more profound personal disappointment: the shattering of hope. Just like with God, truth, or a friend who believed in you, people often embrace a political leader not just for policies or promises, but for emotional deliverance. They invest their faith in the idea that this leader will save them, fix everything, expose evil, punish corruption, and usher in a righteous era. The leader becomes, whether consciously or not, a messianic figure. But when reality sets in—when change is slow, battles are fought behind closed doors, and media noise drowns progress—the silence feels like betrayal.
Many who turn against a President (@realDonaldTrump) they once championed don’t do so because they discover he was a fraud. They do so because they believed in him too deeply, too thoroughly, and when their internal chaos wasn’t resolved overnight, they interpreted his silence as abandonment. They forget that true leadership, like divine love, doesn’t micromanage our despair or shield us from struggle—it empowers us to rise within it. But empowerment demands effort. And effort requires time. Most don’t want transformation—they want a fix. And when the fix doesn’t come fast enough, they confuse patience with failure.
WELCOME TO THE WAR
This is how the blackpill takes root. First comes the feeling of being let down—”Why didn’t he do more?” “Why is the system still corrupt?” “Why are the enemies still winning?” These are valid questions—until they become accusatory. Like the Israelites grumbling in the wilderness, or Iblis scorning God’s plan, the believer turns inward pain into outward rage. And instead of realizing that they were given all the tools to act, speak, build, and awaken others, they curse the leader for not saving them from fighting. Their faith was never truly in the leader’s vision—it was in the fantasy of rescue. When that fantasy dissolves, the truth is blamed.
Then comes the scapegoating. “He must be controlled opposition.” “He fooled us.” “He’s part of the same machine.” This narrative is seductive because it soothes the ego. It turns disappointment into righteousness. It allows the individual to feel clever, awakened, and justified—all while avoiding the painful truth that their disillusionment was rooted in unrealistic expectations. Just like blaming God for not bending to your timeline, blaming a President for not being omnipotent is not a critique of leadership—it’s a symptom of spiritual immaturity. You wanted liberation without participation. When that didn’t happen, you cursed the liberator.
And in the final stage of the blackpill, these once-believers don’t just walk away—they join the voices they once fought. They echo the criticisms of the enemy. They repeat the talking points of the deceivers. Not because they believe them, but because it’s easier than admitting they abandoned a cause when it demanded more from them than applause. Just as the betrayed friend is scapegoated, and God is hated for His silence, the President becomes the lightning rod for all the pain that the people refused to face within themselves.
But those who stay-those who endure the silence, the setbacks, the smears—come to see the truth. They realize that he never promised to be a god. He was a man sent to awaken other men. He didn’t abandon them—they abandoned the mission when it stopped being convenient. And in time, if they return to the clarity that once inspired them, they’ll see he never stopped fighting. He stopped coddling them. Real change doesn’t come from a savior on a stage but from a nation that finally rises to stand beside him.
Evil is born when people abandon the mission because it no longer serves their comfort. It takes root in the soil of entitlement, watered by disappointment, and quickly grows into bitterness disguised as wisdom. When citizens mistake leadership for saviorhood—expecting deliverance without sacrifice—they become spectators in a war that demands participants. And when the leader, refusing to play messiah, asks them instead to rise, they feel betrayed. That’s when destruction begins—first internally, as cynicism erodes conviction, and then collectively, as the nation fractures under the weight of a people who gave up on themselves. It is not the absence of guidance that dooms a country, but the refusal of its people to walk the path laid before them. But those who remain-those who keep their eyes fixed on the truth, not the crowd—do not spiral into despair. They grow. They mature. They understand that the mission was never about applause or ease. It was always about awakening- the journey, and only the faithful endure that fire.
That’s how the faithful mature. That’s how the blackpilled heal. And that’s how we remember: the ones who dare to speak truth, to love a country enough to let it struggle through its rebirth, are rarely thanked in the moment. They’re cursed, slandered, and scapegoated—until history, and the people themselves, catch up to the truth they tried to run from.
ON A PERSONAL NOTE
Truth does not abandon you. It simply waits for you to stop abandoning yourself. It doesn’t bend, flatter, or beg to be loved—but it always stands ready for you to stand with it. While illusions promise comfort and applause, truth demands endurance. It doesn’t offer shelter from the storm; it is the storm , stripping away the false, the weak, and the fragile until only what is real remains. Most people don’t want to stand in the storm—they want to pose in front of it, curate the aesthetic of righteousness without the pain of transformation. But the storm is not your enemy. It is your passage. And truth is not against you—it’s ahead of you, waiting for you to meet it there, not as a spectator, but as a participant.
As for me, betrayal has been my refiner’s fire. I have watched those who mentored me, those whom I loved, twist my trust into accusation and abandon the very light they once praised because it didn’t serve their timeline. But I do not fear their rejection. I use it. I do not see betrayal as proof that I was wrong—I see it as confirmation that I stood where others only postured. And so I will keep siding with truth, not because it makes me feel safe, but because it is the only force that can shatter the cycle—the ouroboros of deception, dependency, and denial. I do not wish to be devoured by this world’s endless loop of expectation and disappointment. I want out. And the only exit is the truth, even when it hurts.
Especially then.
I’m at peace being the villain in evil’s story—because in a world upside down, the righteous will always be framed as the threat. You should be at peace with that too. — Tore Maras
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