Facts. They’re dangerous, aren’t they? Cold, unyielding, relentless in their simplicity. They don’t plead for acceptance or beg for forgiveness. They simply are. But in a world built on perception, on spin, on carefully curated narratives, facts are the unwelcome guest at the table. They crash the party, shatter the illusions, and leave chaos in their wake. And that, my friends, is why they’re feared.

People like to pretend they value the truth. They like to puff up their chests and declare, “I deal in facts!” But when the chips are down, when the facts are no longer convenient, when they cut too close to the bone, watch how quickly they recoil. The truth is, facts aren’t comforting. They don’t care about your feelings, your beliefs, or your precious little worldview. They demand acknowledgment, accountability, and action. And those are things most people can’t stomach.

You see, facts are unrelenting. They don’t play by the rules of polite society. They don’t cater to your bias or adjust themselves to fit the narrative you want to tell. No, they stand there, immovable, taunting you with their quiet certainty. And that’s why people hate them. Because facts don’t negotiate. They expose. They undermine. They obliterate.

What makes facts truly maddening is their permanence. You can spin a story, craft a lie, build an entire world out of falsehoods, but the facts? They linger. They’re patient. They wait for the moment when your house of cards starts to wobble. And then, with the faintest gust of truth, they bring the whole thing tumbling down.

Now, don’t misunderstand me—facts aren’t just inconvenient; they’re subversive. They challenge power. They erode control. A well-placed fact is a weapon, sharper than any blade, more devastating than any bomb. It cuts through the noise, the rhetoric, the bluster, and leaves the pretenders exposed. That’s why the powerful despise them. They can’t manipulate facts without first dismantling the very idea of truth.

And so, the war on facts begins. The whispers start. “Facts are subjective.” “Facts are political.” “Facts are just tools of the opposition.” Slowly, steadily, they erode the foundation, chipping away at the credibility of truth itself. Because if you can’t kill the facts, you can at least convince people they don’t matter. That’s the game, isn’t it? Distract. Distrust. Discredit.

But here’s the irony—facts don’t need belief to exist. They don’t care whether you accept them or not. They’ll be there, long after your lies have faded, standing like ruins in the desert, undeniable in their permanence. And that’s the real insanity of it all. You can rage against the facts, deny them, twist them, bury them under mountains of nonsense, but you can’t erase them. They are the ultimate reminder of your fragility, your limitations, your failures.

That’s why facts drive people mad. Because they are relentless. They are merciless. They are incorruptible. And in a world obsessed with control, they are the one thing that cannot be tamed. They don’t just expose the truth; they demand a reckoning. And most people would rather burn the world to the ground than face the judgment of a single fact.

So go ahead, rage against them. Call them conspiracies. Dismiss them as bias. Build your fortresses of falsehoods, your castles of denial. It doesn’t matter. Facts don’t need your approval. They will wait. And when the dust settles, when the lies have withered, and the illusion is gone, they’ll still be standing. Cold. Indifferent. Victorious.

That, my friends, is the beauty—and the terror—of facts. They are the final arbiters. They are the reckoning. And no matter how hard you fight, no matter how far you run, they will always, always find you.