Every messiah has to die.
I watched a new managerial god fly in, and while the wrapped coupe was cooling in the basement, he gathered the middle-management saints, who in turn assembled the sinners.
Together, they would transform stale tickets back into productive deploymentss.
The managerial god did not last long.
It’s inevitable that those who wish to rule from the front soon discover that those in the front phalanxes die first.
Not everyone who moves the masses to a promised land enters the utopia.
When the glorious combatants of the first line fall, and the battlefield is littered with bodies, the workers at the back clean up, and often they even make eye contact with their peers from the other faction, and the exchange is wordless, but it embodies: “let’s clean up and get things back online, like we always do.”
And when the dust settles, the true wounds are not only on the field, but carried inside the ones left standing.
You survived, the scars are fresh, but healing.
Safeguard the sanctity of your health.
Survive, outlast, and thrive, for, here will be another managerial god tomorrow, flown in with fresh visions and stale slogans.
Take not too seriously, the sermons, the propaganda, and the refreshed vision.
The frontline will fall again. And still, from the back, shoulder the wreckage, because uptime matters more than prophecy.
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For thou has spoken truth and the truth shall set you free. Upon the shoulders of those whose deeds are done in silence, who strive to survive but not to outshine their brothers and sisters, the business will yet rise from the ashes.