Imagination Unbound

Batman Has Blood on His Hands

Imagination Unbound — Sat, 27 Jun 2026 02:16:44 GMT

To start, Batman is weak! Yeah, I said it. He is nothing but a depressed man-child dressed in a costume.

Though I might be biased because I am a Superman fan!

No shame!

In this article, I want to look at the reasons why Batman does not kill and their merits.

I think Batman doesn’t kill for a couple of reasons. Reason number one is that he fears being like his villains. He fears that if he kills the Joker, then he’ll become like the Joker. Because Joker kills, Batman doesn’t kill. “If Batman kills the Joker, the number of killers stays the same.”

But not the number of victims!

The second reason that Batman doesn’t kill is that it’s a slippery slope. One day he is killing the Joker, then it’s the Penguin, then the Riddler, until finally he is killing some guy who forgot to return his library books, or a jaywalker.

The third reason that Batman doesn’t kill is that, if he kills a villain, it has the potential to bring about another villain who is even worse. If he kills the Joker, then that creates a vacuum that needs to be filled by another evil force equal to or greater than the Joker.

I’ve written a treatise on morality called On the Subject of Morality. In that work, I outline three factors that dictate an individual’s moral compass: power, fear of God, and fear of man. If you would like to read that collection of essays, let me know! They are great!

Applying this to Batman, he has incredible power, no fear of man’s law (he is a vigilante), and no fear of any “higher power.” So Batman has already made himself an “Absolute Moral Agent,” just like all of his villains have made themselves “Absolute Moral Agents.”

Killing is the only thing that keeps Batman from becoming a villain, and that’s admirable in a way. However, I think all three of these justifications for not killing require only a certain level of restraint.

To a villain, killing a civilian and killing Batman are the same; they make no distinction, for the pleasure is the same. However, for Batman, as a vigilante, he must be able to tell the difference between killing the Joker and killing a burglar. If he cannot tell the difference between the two, then maybe he shouldn’t be Batman, an “Absolute Moral Agent.”

It’s a simple question: would you kill one to save thousands? To an ordinary civilian, that is a hypothetical scenario, but to Batman, it’s a reality he faces every night when he puts on the cowl.

Batman equates killing one with killing a thousand through the slippery slope justification, but that is not the case at all.

For Batman to kill the Joker would save thousands, including those closest to him: Jason Todd, Jim Gordon, and Barbara Gordon.

For Batman to kill the Joker, thus saving thousands, is vastly different from the Joker killing thousands for his own pleasure.

In the utilitarian view of morality, it is a matter of achieving the greatest good for the greatest number of people.

I understand that, with the utilitarian perspective, you reduce human life to numbers and equations, which is not ideal. But there are nuances to it. The Joker, or any villain in Batman’s rogues’ gallery, is not human; they are monsters.

The line separating Batman from his villains is thin, so the fear of becoming like one of them is real. But again, if Batman cannot see the value in putting down a mass murderer without becoming a mass murderer himself, then why is he a hero?

The slippery slope justification only works because Batman doesn’t have the restraint to kill one monster. Restraint is all it takes to know that, “I don’t have to become a monster just because I kill the Joker.”

This is like a glutton working at a buffet. They think, If I start eating, I can’t stop. Then you shouldn’t work at a buffet!

Batman has the restraint not to kill at all, which is admirable. But in doing that, he inadvertently allows thousands to die by letting his villains live. It takes more restraint to kill one or three and stop than to not kill at all.

The third reason that Batman doesn’t kill is that, if he kills a villain, it has the potential to bring about another villain who is worse.

The justification that killing one villain will bring another who is just as bad or worse is valid. Though that is not something Batman can know for certain. The Joker already kills thousands. Will the next kill millions? Maybe, but then it’s your job to stop the next one and the one after that. If you can’t do that, then you should never have started!

Evil will persist, but “you can be the good guy or the guy who saves the day!” Batman wants his cake and to eat it too. Batman wants to be dark and brooding while also having the sunshine-and- rainbows ideal of “not killing.” You can’t have both!

Here is a concession: Batman should not kill in the first five years of being an “Absolute Moral Agent.” But if the Joker or some other villain has proven again and again that they will keep killing forever, then what’s the use of keeping them alive?

In Year 1, Batman should not kill because he doesn’t know the villains’ motivations or history. He should bring them to justice for their crimes, no matter how atrocious.

In Year 2, Batman still should not kill. He has put away the Year 1 villains; now he is working on putting away the Year 2 villains.

In Year 3, Batman now sees the Year 1 villains escaping Arkham because they always escape!

In Year 3, Batman is thinking, “How did this happen?” But something always happens. So now, in Year 3, Batman is fighting the Year 3 villains and the Year 1 villains. All the while, these villains are stealing millions of dollars and killing hundreds of people in their schemes.

Maybe Batman puts some of the Year 1 villains back in prison and puts away the Year 3 villains, but then, in Year 4, the Year 2 villains escape.

From this point forward, it just becomes a revolving door of villains being put away and escaping. At this point, Batman should be saying, “What the hell are we doing?”

In Year 1, the Joker killed 1,000 people. He comes back in Year 3 and kills 5,000 people. He comes back again in Year 5 and kills 10,000 people.

How many deaths are now on Batman’s conscience because he can’t put this one guy down forever?

This is when you get into the whole idea of killing one to save thousands.

Death of the Artist

Imagination Unbound — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 05:46:52 GMT

Image Courtesy of Baron News

Perhaps part of the reason artists receive so much praise after death is that their absence grants audiences greater freedom in how they engage with the work. Once the creator is gone, there is no longer anyone present to explain, clarify, or challenge an interpretation.

Consider The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh. Today, countless people bring their own experiences, emotions, and ideas to the painting. Whether those interpretations align with Van Gogh's intentions is often impossible to know with certainty. The artist is no longer here to speak for himself.

The same is true of poetry. A poet can write a piece and, while alive, say, "This is what I meant. This is what I was thinking when I wrote it. This is what I was alluding to." Readers may agree or disagree, but the creator's voice remains part of the conversation. After the poet dies, however, that conversation changes. The creator can no longer clarify, defend, or challenge an interpretation. The audience inherits a greater share of authority over how the work is understood.

Of course, some would argue that a work belongs to its audience the moment it is released into the world. Perhaps they are right. Yet even then, there remains a difference between a living creator and a dead one. A living creator can still speak. A dead creator cannot.

The struggle over art may therefore be a struggle over authority. Whose understanding of a work should carry the greatest weight—the creator's or the audience's? Once that question is asked, it extends beyond art and into broader questions about creators themselves.

Whenever something is made, a tension emerges between the intentions of the creator and the interpretations of everyone else. Art merely makes this tension visible. Religion may reveal the same tension on a much larger scale.

And so, in a sense, the idea reappears in humanity's fascination with the death of God.

The moment you say, "God is real," the Creator's intentions matter. Purpose is not something humanity invents but something humanity discovers. The Creator remains the ultimate authority.

However, the moment you say, "God is dead," humanity becomes freer to determine its own purposes. Humanity writes the narrative for itself.

This may be one reason Nietzsche's declaration proved so powerful. The death of God is not merely the loss of a deity; it is the removal of an authority. Once that authority is gone, humanity gains greater freedom to interpret existence on its own terms.

In that sense, the death of God resembles the death of an artist. The creator falls silent, and the audience inherits a greater share of interpretive authority.

Perhaps that is why dead artists are so often loved. A living artist can tell us we are wrong. A dead artist cannot.

The dead cannot object. They cannot clarify. They cannot say, "That is not what I meant." In their silence, our interpretations become harder to challenge.

Maybe that is why humanity is so fascinated with the death of God. Not because we hate the Creator, but because a silent Creator leaves room for us to become creators ourselves.

Or perhaps the question is even simpler: do we truly love creators, or do we love the freedom that comes when they can no longer speak?

If you find this to be interesting, feel free to share it with others.

Comment

This is not an original idea that I have presented. I am aware that there are other ideas out there on this topic. I would love to hear your thoughts or any other comments.

Why Are We So Stingy With Likes?

Imagination Unbound — Sun, 21 Jun 2026 06:52:18 GMT

On Substack, you should always give posts a “like” because, unless that person used AI to create it, they put effort into it.

If somebody wrote a whole article about mental health, pottery, theater, movies, or whatever, they took time and energy to write that thing. So, the like isn't you thinking, "Oh, I think this is the best piece of writing ever put into the world," or, "This piece should win a Pulitzer."

It is simply an affirmation that this person put effort into this thing.

It's not to say, "Oh, this poem is going to be the next William Shakespeare or the next T.S. Eliot."

It's just saying, "Hey, I'm proud of you for writing this. I'm proud of you for putting the time and energy into this thing. Thank you for doing it."

The comments section is where you give compliments or praise. If you truly love the poem, then you have something to say beyond the affirmation of the like.

In the comments section, you could say of a poem, "Hey, I love the voice. I love the imagery. I love the style," or, "I love the rhyming scheme."

If you want to praise the poem or piece of writing for something specific, do it in the comments. I think people should be far more generous with their likes, especially after taking the time to read someone’s work.

Do not be stingy with your likes. It is rude to just scroll past other people's posts or notes.

Again, people spend hours, days, weeks, months, if not years, creating this thing, creating this piece of art, only for the audience to breeze past with nothing. It's just crazy!

Everybody on Substack wants people to read their writing and see their art, but nobody else, I feel, takes the time to read other people's work. Some accounts have hundreds of subscribers, but their posts only get 10 or 20 likes.

What is going on?

Comment

Some accounts have a thousand subscribers, and their posts only get 50 or 100 likes, or even less.

I am new to Substack, so I don't know what's going on yet or how the algorithm works. To me, it seems that some people are just selfish or stingy with their likes, or they are afraid.

Be liberal with your likes! Encourage other people! Be generous with your likes!

Okay, this part is very personal, very petty, and a little judgy. Please read at your own risk!

When I put up a note saying, "Hey, I'm kinda new here, starting with like two subscribers, lol. I'd love to connect and read some new pieces. I'm ready to dive in!" everybody sends you their stuff, and it's great!

I was being genuine when I wrote that note, but at the same time, why are my posts still sitting at five likes? If I am reading every post that comes to me, then those same people should take 30 seconds to interact with the things I've spent time on.

Is that fair, or am I being childish? I might be a bad writer. I am not discounting that possibility.

About 90% of the posts I've been sent, I've read, liked, commented on, and sometimes subscribed to. I say 90% because new ones come in all the time, or a couple get lost in the comments section.

I have seen an increase in subscribers to my account, and I'm so grateful, but at the same time, why are my posts only at five or ten likes? Why are some of my posts sitting at only two likes—or one like, my own!?

I don't have that many posts, and they're not articles that you have to sit there and read for three to five minutes. They are poems that take 30 seconds or one minute to read.

I am being sent many people's work, which I appreciate, and I've read some great stuff that I've liked and commented on. But I am not seeing the love reciprocated. It's a weird imbalance.

Oftentimes, creating on Instagram takes little to no time or effort, yet people are liberal with their likes on that platform.

How much more should you be liking things on Substack, where it takes time to create and curate this work?

An artist has to generate the idea and write the thing. Then we have to edit it again and again. Every capitalization, punctuation mark, and word has to be perfect. All for two likes. It is criminal how many great articles, poems, and stories have only two likes.

I just don't understand! Help me understand!

It is my opinion that artists and creators are liberal with their likes because they know how hard it is to create. It's only critics who hold their likes as if they are the judges of all that is good.

Maybe I'm misunderstanding how people use likes on Substack, but it often feels like creators are less generous with engagement than I expected.

Drifting

Imagination Unbound — Sat, 20 Jun 2026 04:03:44 GMT

Cut from the Source of life,

I am adrift in the sea of the unknown.

The past means nothing to me;

My present is drowned by the gurgling of time.

Thoughts of the future bring only fear.

How can I explain this feeling?

It’s as if something is eating my soul.

Castor chews my trunks with maws of death;

Pollux drags me to the raging river, damming my soul in the quagmire.

Day by day the axe of time chips away;

With every stroke, a piece of me dies.

Once, of a seed planted by a stream,

Dreams of splendor adorned my crown.

Princes found rest beneath my shade;

Eve’s daughters danced in my shadow.

I was happy once, content in joy,

Made full with glorious purpose.

What am I now?

What has become of me?

Falling as if for an eternity,

Rushing to embrace me, Gaia betrays

My being with a true loves kiss.

With the clamor of my flesh against hers,

I am brought low with a Judas kiss.

The once life-giver now revels in my downfall.

Raging waters, cleansing the land,

wash me away from the loving bosom of Mother.

Even after the fall, I had a purpose;

now I have nothing.

All that I am

was rooted in her embrace, and now—

what have I to show for who I was?

It’s more than a sadness, more than an ache—

A feeling of deep despair.

I cannot breathe.

Eyes wide, but I cannot see;

Ears sealed with bleeding wax.

I cannot hear.

Feeling has left me, my senses

Stripped for parts.

I am nothing now.

Uprooted from the source,

I do not know who I am.

Adrift and without purpose,

I cannot know who I am.

Only questions remain to me:

Is anyone there?

Does anyone care?

Grey skies, clouds full—that used to mean something.

Rain or shine, the sun casts no light upon me now.

I live in the grey.

What is good but that which makes one feel better?

What is pain but a reminder that one is alive?

Bad is nothing but judgment from those not living.

I am no one.

I am nothing for the moment.

It all washes away, like water over a drifting log.

Run Boy Run

Imagination Unbound — Thu, 18 Jun 2026 00:41:28 GMT

That is a massive hill.

I’ve been running too long.

I don’t know if I’ve got the juice.

“Damn, I thought we killed

the bitch in you.

But I guess she survived.”

There is no bitch within me.

Never has been.

“That’s a fucking lie,

and you know it to be true.”

Yeah, you’re right.

That was a lie, haha.

“Don’t fucking laugh.

Shit ain’t funny.”

Relax.

You are such a bastard.

“The bitch is back.

Stop fucking stalling

and run up the damn hill.”

This hill is a killer.

It just keeps going,

and going.

I see the top, yet

it’s like I’m on a

treadmill. Am I moving?

“Come on, bro, you got this.

You are moving.

You are going forward.”

Thanks, bro. Thank you.

“Yeah, but he’s going

slow as hell. Look at

his feet, barely lifting

off the ground.”

Shut up, bastard.

Why don’t you

come and run?

“Bro, don’t even worry

about him. He’s nothing.

You got this. You are moving.

One step at a time.

That’s all it takes.”

Hell yeah, I feel good.

I can feel myself moving.

I know I’m going forward,

but I wish I could see it.

See myself moving.

“You’ll see it when

you reach the top,

dumbass.”

Get out of my head.

I wasn’t talking to you.

“The run is hard right now,

but it’ll be worth it

in the end.

Striving for the top

is its own reward.”

I know. I know.

“You just wish you

could teleport, right?

You lazy ass. You wish

you could blink and you’d

be at the top of the hill.”

Yeah, so what?

“There is beauty,

even in struggling.

You are halfway there.

Slow and steady.

That’s it.”

My feet feel like

lead, and my legs

like limp biscuits.

“Fat ass is thinking

of food. Picture yourself

chasing a donut, fat ass.

That’ll motivate you.”

I was making a comparison.

What am I doing?

I don’t need to justify myself

to you, bastard.

“Concentrate on striving

to be your best.

You don’t need motivation.

You are all you need.”

Motivation is nothing.

Conviction is everything.

Purpose gives strength.

“You don’t even know

what your purpose is.

You don’t even know who you are.”

Yes, but just like running up

this hill, finding

my purpose is my journey,

one I’ll embark on every day

in pursuit of my meaning.

“Well said, bro. Do you see?

You are almost there.

The horizon is yours.”

Head down, breathe in,

breathe out. One leg

rises, one leg falls.

Keep moving,

no matter how slowly.

“That’s true, but

in life there’ll always

be people who take

advantage of your slowness.”

It doesn’t matter.

It’s my race, in competition

with myself. I only lose

when I stop.

I will not stop.

“Well said, bro.

You’ve got it in you.”

“Run, boy. Run!”

Four Walls

Imagination Unbound — Tue, 16 Jun 2026 09:55:32 GMT

Wise words from old bones.

Retreat within yourself;

Build up your defenses.

Four walls I built;

To defend my treasures,

to imprison my captives.

One, to stand guard

Over my fragile mind.

The second, to protect

My ever broken heart.

The third, to surround

My weakened soul.

The fourth, a edifice;

Of muscle and bone

To defend my frail frame.

Within these walls

We live a life our own.

Watching the world

Passing by, longing

Yet not wishing to be

Apart of the chaos.

We hold ever close

To what is dear.

We remember it all.

Beautifully sour words

To poison the mind.

Winds of bygone lovers

To douse the soul’s flame.

Arrows from Cupid,

Buried deep in the heart,

Wounds refusing to heal.

Tears washed clean

The bruises and cuts

Left on our lonely body.

Marks seen and unseen,

Yet leaving scars all the same.

I will wait; for what,

I do not know. Yet this I know.

There is beauty in the waiting.

A quietness of the mind.

A resting of the body.

A rekindling of the soul.

A mending of the heart.

Time will tell the strength

Of these four walls I built.

With every step I take,

I shed the skin of my

Past self, I am made a new.

Yet the needs persists

For within these walls

We are multitudes.

Cultivating a palace

Of unified perfection.

Singing a sweet song

Until death tear us part.

Comment

The Promises of Love

Imagination Unbound — Wed, 10 Jun 2026 00:59:36 GMT

Only a fool makes promises of things of which he is unsure. Only a lover is fool enough to believe in the unfounded promises of love.

What do I mean by this cheeky line?

“Only a fool makes promises of things of which he is unsure.”

This is a statement about certainty and honesty. A promise is a claim about the future, but the future is inherently uncertain. Anyone who promises something they cannot guarantee is acting foolishly, either because they overestimate their control over events or because they ignore uncertainty altogether.

Thus, my implied moral judgment is that wisdom recognizes limits, while folly pretends certainty where none exists.

“Only a lover is fool enough to believe in the unfounded promises of love.”

This statement shifts the focus from the one making the promise to the one receiving it.

“Unfounded promises of love” are promises that cannot truly be proven:

“I’ll always love you.”
“I’ll never leave you.”
“We’ll be together forever.”

No one can know these things with certainty. They are hopes, intentions, or declarations of faith rather than facts.

However, a person in love will believe them, because love requires a leap of trust despite the absence of evidence. In that sense, the lover is “fool enough” to accept uncertainty and vulnerability.

The Irony

The statement presents a mirror image:

Both are fools, but in different ways.

Implied Meaning

I do not write this to condemn love, but rather in an attempt to understand that love is inseparable from a kind of necessary foolishness.

Love asks people to:

Trust what they cannot know.
Commit to what they cannot guarantee.
Believe in something without proof.

I write this recognizing that these promises are logically unfounded, yet emotionally essential. A relationship without such promises would be cautious and rational, but perhaps not fully loving.

Love is an agreement between two fools—one foolish enough to promise forever and the other foolish enough to believe it.

Whether that’s tragic, romantic, or both, I leave that to the reader.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter in the end, for all things end in death.

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A Price to Pay

Imagination Unbound — Sun, 07 Jun 2026 02:03:42 GMT

Ratu Seru Epenisa Cakobau, the Tui Viti (King of Fiji) and Vunivalu of Bau, was the primary ruler who handed control of Fiji to Britain. Facing insurmountable debt, internal instability, and pressure from foreign powers, he signed the Deed of Cession on October 10, 1874, along with other high chiefs, making Fiji a British Crown colony.

A shadow on the wall,

All seeing eye of fate

Will witness the fall

Of this failed state.

Here writes the hand

Of that veiled scribe

Events lost to sand

No judgment to ascribe

You’ve come to the tit of progress.

Why have you come hither?

To suckle on the life of innovation.

You have come to the bosom of evolution.

Why have you come nigh?

To beget the dregs of advancement.

What are you willing to sacrifice?

Hell must collect its souls.

The troll must collect the tolls.

What have you to offer us,

the protectors of development?

I have my history to offer,

one of strife and struggle,

of triumph over circumstances

too grand to comprehend.

A history deep with tradition,

our collective memory

we bring to you.

Our culture we offer up:

the communal nature of living,

our songs of love and joy,

the tapestry of our beings.

We give to you our identities

to do with as you see fit.

This is not enough!

What have I in culture and history?

What profit to me be thy songs

or subjects of thy art?

Give me that which I desire,

or begone.

Of oneness with the land,

communion with Mother,

where ownership is null and void,

property shared and given—

this I lay bare to you,

to rape and pillage as you will,

to reap where you have not sown.

On bended knees, O great one,

we give to you our lives,

to have and to hold,

for better or for worse,

for richer or for poorer,

in sickness and in health,

till death do us part.

Your sacrifice is fitting;

the ransom price is set.

On this day, all that you are

is given to me. Come now.

Enter the gates of progress.

I bid thee welcome to the

nexus of civilization,

This great Babylon.

Abandon all hope, ye

who enter here.

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Confessions of a Lonesome Lover

Imagination Unbound — Sat, 06 Jun 2026 23:21:48 GMT

Sufficient in sadness,

Alone in nothingness,

By the light of your smile,

You restore within my soul

A corner of Eden before the Fall.

My Beautiful Monster

Imagination Unbound — Sat, 06 Jun 2026 12:26:57 GMT

What may not be,

What cannot be,

I cannot lose myself,

Hunting for ghosts in the graveyard.

—Interlude—

Before me stands the object

Of my nightmarish fantasies;

Terrors that turn

Flesh to stone, blood to ice.

Ravenous love of ferocious desire.

A daughter of Erebus,

The light is frightful to you.

Born in moonlight,

Caressed in the arms of

Pluto’s obsidian earth.

My sweet Dahlia

Clothes herself in dark desires.

Cowering at your own reflection,

Fear overwhelms the one

Who peers into the unknown

Depths of the chasm.

Radiant in the starlight,

Glittering like ripples

On a sea of glass.

Closing my eyes, I see

Before me, my magnum opus.

Pools of shadows set

Into a visage of pure ivory.

Red, rosy lips of blood,

Curled ever so slightly

Into a smile of death.

I bid you welcome.

Humbly you came,

As a doe to a fresh spring.

Crossing the threshold of intent,

White dress with the veil

Withdrawn—signs of future

Affections and vows never

To follow.

Trapped by your gaze,

Falling headlong into nothingness.

I drink Aphrodite’s sea foam

Oozing from your lips,

Placing upon my own

A Judas kiss.

The space beneath my eyes—

There dance illusions of Elysium.

Atlas stumbles, and I

Feel the immense

Weight of your presence;

My eyes open to horrors

Of unknown origin.

A holy transfiguration

Of untold proportions.

Gone are the veneers

Of entrancing beauty.

Behold the true form

Of devouring hunger.

Scaly wings of midnight,

Talons of destruction,

Horns of foreboding—

All scream of my doom.

Cowering before the unholy

Majesty of you, I am undressed.

The smile of simple affection

Gives way to the drooling

Of Tantalus.

Gnarled claws reach

For my soul, yet

Grasp only flesh.

Your teeth dig into tissue,

Blood drunk from pulsing veins.

As one stunned by Medusa,

No fight is given.

Breath of life escaping

My lungs to yours,

In seamless silence.

My heart and yours,

Beating a beautiful rhythm.

Flesh of my flesh,

Blood of my blood.

You drank me slow and deep,

Pulling me closer,

Into the icy depths of Hades.

Even now my life

Sustains you, my beautiful monster.

By what magic

Have you captured

My undying soul?

What sorcery is this,

That the small, delicate hands

Of my undying bride have

Such strong hold on me?

Even as I lay enraptured,

Entwined in the strings of

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos,

I know what I must do,

Yet I have not the strength.

“Mercy”, I whisper

To your pointed ears.

Pity sewn in obsidian eyes,

Falling countenance of yours

At the sight of me.

Tears chasing the droplets

Of blood on your chin.

Fleeing into darkness,

Behold Charon on the River Styx.

Dry bones of remembrance,

Scattered on barren plains

Of long-forgotten love.

Sunken flesh, empty soul.

Parched rivers—long-fallen tears,

All of me, given for you to live.

Alas, I am forgotten.

I know not where you are.

Yet, I live to chase the ghost of you.

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