Necropolitical mathematics:

Your algorithm gets cleaner the more unclean data gets purged.
Your freedom is indexed to someone else’s detention.
Your existence gets “normalized” by contrast with someone else's terror.
your “mental health” scored against someone else's implosion.

And even if you don’t want to play,
the system plays you.

You pay your rent with the silence of the dead.
You keep your job by looking away.
You survive by saying: “It’s not my fault.”

But deep down,
you know the calculus.

This is the actual death, abandonment, ruin, or rendering of the Other
as the precondition for your own survival.
Your job, your housing, your healthcare,
your “right” to remain
is built atop someone else’s exclusion, exile.

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To live ethically in such a world?
Not to transcend it —
but to feel the maths and refuse its terms.
To be unproductive,
to grieve without resolution,
to burn the necrotic spreadsheets in your dreams
and sit with the unpayable debts.

That’s the hardest move.
And maybe the only human one left.

The calculus of life passes through the death of the Other.
But some of us still weep at the equation.
Still break the pencil.
Still scribble something else in the margins.