The Work That Hurts

Becoming Real in a Dying World

A new kind of human can’t be born inside the rotting shell of inherited belief. If you were raised under the weight of tradition, dogma, or systems designed to keep you small, then you know: something inside you has to break before anything real can begin. But this breaking doesn’t look like rebellion. There are no banners. No shouting. The revolution starts quietly—deep in the body, in the breath, in the nervous system. It’s not dramatic. It’s persistent.

The first thing you’ll have to face is education—not learning, but the machine built to stamp out instinct, to teach kids how to sit still, follow rules, and ask permission to exist. The second is religion—not the trembling awe of the unknown, but the comforting sedation of tidy answers, rewards, and punishments. And then there’s therapy—not as healing, but as a polite cage, a way of filing down the soul until it fits neatly into the system again.

What we need now are transition individuals—those caught between worlds. They were born in the old one but have been infected by the scent of something new. Yes, infected—not inspired. Because this isn’t about beauty or clarity. It’s about risk. Infection brings fever, shakes your foundation, makes you question everything. It could kill you. Or it could change you forever.

That’s the future human: someone shaped by blood, fire, and rupture—not peace, comfort, or coping mechanisms.

And it begins, strangely enough, with the face.

The face is more than a mask. It’s where your history shows. It’s where you learned to fake it. Every half-smile, every twitch of the eyes, every tightness in your jaw is a story you’ve been told about who you should be. Undoing the face means undoing the self you show the world—the version of you that plays nice, plays small, plays dead.

This is not about happiness. Radical Undoing isn’t therapy. It isn’t self-help. It won’t make you feel better. It will make you real.

Start with the breath—not the shallow kind that keeps you half-alive, but the deep, shaking kind that comes from your gut, from your spine, from somewhere ancient. Breathe until something starts to stir. Until your skin feels wrong and your hands start to twitch. That’s where the work begins.

Then open your eyes wide—wider. Hold them until they burn. Then squeeze them shut. Let them ache. Roll them. Tap your forehead. Wake up the parts of your brain that school, religion, and polite conversation tried to put to sleep. Look in the mirror. Hold your own gaze. Wait until you no longer recognise the person looking back.

Let your jaw move. Let your mouth stretch. Let the tongue reach, lips tremble, cheeks contort. Make faces you never let yourself make. Channel the ones you inherited—your mother’s tight smile, your father’s frown. Then tear them off. Become raw. Become strange. Become yours.

And then speak.

No script. No mantra. Just you. Whatever that means. Speak whatever comes. Let it out—nonsense, rage, sobbing, laughter, silence. This isn’t about catharsis. It’s about truth. It’s about facing the pieces of yourself you’ve been avoiding and letting them collide. Let it fall apart. You don’t need to put it back together.

Hyatt never promised transcendence. He promised demolition. What rises from that wreckage is yours—and only if you’re willing to face the collapse.

Radical Undoing is for people who are done being tamed. Who know that extinction wears a smile and speaks in calm tones. This work is for the strong, the wild, the ones at the edge. It’s a last ritual. A feral rite for those who want to become something else.

So start with your face. Start with your breath. Start now.

But know this: it’s going to hurt.

And if it doesn’t—you’re not doing it right.