Crowdfunding Corrosion: When Culture Pays for Its Own Decay
This monologue is about what happens when society begins to fund its own corruption, and how truth-seekers must sometimes separate in order to preserve whatâs sacred. Itâs a call to bring awareness to collective moral apathy, and an invitation to rebuild something honest, even if it costs us convenience, applause, or belonging.
âThe further a society drifts from truth, the more it will hate those who speak it.â â George Orwell
Guess what? You guessed it.
I want to tell you a story.
The Well That Paid for Poison
There was a small town, dry and dusty, with one shared well at the center. It had been there for generations. It was cool, clean water that fed every house, every field, every soul. People disagreed on many things, but not the well.
The well was sacred. You didnât mess with the well.
One day, a man came along and spat in it. Right there. No shame. Looked the townspeople in the eye and did it anyway.
A young boy saw it. His face twisted in confusion and hurt.
âWhy would you do that?â he asked. âWe all drink from here.â
But the man didnât answer.
Instead, something strange happened.
A few folks stepped forward, not to rebuke him, not to stop him, but to pay him.
âHere,â they said, âin case people get mad at you...â
âHere,â they said, âyou might need protection...â
âHere,â they said, âyouâre just misunderstood.â
More people came with coins. Some added notes of encouragement. A few laughed off their indifference.
The boy watched, stunned. He looked at the well, then at the man, then at the crowd. He shouted, âBut we all drink from that!â
They glanced at the boy, then looked away.
âDonât make it bigger than it is,â one of them said.
âHe didnât mean any harm,â another mumbled.
âDonât be so sensitive.â
The next week, someone else did it.
And again the week after that.
Spit in the well... get rewarded.
Pretty soon, folks who never dared to be cruel in public found a new reason to try, because in that town now, bad behavior paid better than a hard dayâs work.
And the water started tasting bitter.
Not everyone noticed at first. But then came the stomachaches. Then the dry throats. Then the blame... blaming the bucket, the rope, even the wind.
But not the spitting. Never the spitting.
The boy tried to rally people. He shouted. He cried. He pleaded.
âWe canât keep poisoning the thing we all depend on!â
But the town had changed.
Some had grown used to the taste. Some were too tired to care. And some were still collecting coins.
So one day, the boy left. Walked past the farms, past the noise, to the edge of town. He found a quiet patch of land and started digging.
No one helped at first. Some laughed. Some said he was overreacting. Some warned heâd never survive without the townâs well.
But he kept digging.
And eventually, others came. People who remembered what clean water was like. People who were willing to sweat for something honest.
Together, they built a new well. Not perfect. It wasnât easy. But it was clean.
They didnât build walls. They built fences with open gates, not to keep people out, but to keep truth in.
And above the new well, they hung a sign:
âThis well is not for sale.
Keep your spit and your silver.â
Some people spit in the collective soul of a society, with cruelty, with racism, with callousness... and then get paid for it.
Racism, in this sense, isnât just hatred. Itâs the use of power, privilege, or platform to dehumanize, to treat someoneâs dignity as disposable.
And when a system rewards that behavior, the problem isnât just the act... itâs the applause that follows.
And when we donât say anything, when we toss a coin or look away, weâre not neutral.
We are participants in the poisoning.
But there is another way.
Itâs harder. It takes digging. It takes remembering.
But the water is cleaner.
And the people who drink from it?
They donât forget that what we all depend on... should never be for sale.
Again⌠no matter where we stand, my people, when we dig deep enough, we all reach the same center.
Crowdfunding Corrosion: When Culture Pays for Its Own Decay
When did we become so lost⌠that accountability became persecution⌠and racism became a revenue stream?
When a woman racialized as white hurled a slur at a child, the world didnât pause in heartbreak⌠it opened its wallets.
We werenât merely witnessing a moral failure. We were witnessing the monetization of decay.
They called it a fundraiser. I call it a funeral for our conscience.
âAnyone who has the power to make you believe absurdities has the power to make you commit injustices.â â Voltaire, Questions sur les Miracles (1765)
Because what kind of world rewards hate like a business model? What kind of system quietly hands out checks to those who tear at the fabric of humanity?
This isnât just about one woman. Itâs about the machine that made her profitable. A platform that calls itself Christian, but lets slurs pass for sermons, and lets white supremacy raise more money than a single Black childâs future.
No, this isnât about free speech. Itâs about free fall.
And the platforms hosting these campaigns are not neutral bystanders⌠they are silent partners in the decay.
They muted the comments⌠but they didnât mute the cash.
We have to stop pretending that technology is neutral, because algorithms arenât passive. They are directional. They reward whatâs loud, not whatâs true⌠what shocks, not what heals.
And in that economy, the lowest parts of us become the most lucrative.
You think the slur was the crime?
No.
The real crime is that over 30,000 people saw it and said, âShe deserves support.â
Thatâs not ignorance. Thatâs intention. Thatâs ideology disguised as pity.
Let me ask you plainlyâŚ
If a hate crime can earn you six figures, what does that incentivize next?
Pause.
We are not just looking at racism. Weâre looking at organized backlash. Weâre looking at emotional investors in the collapse of empathy.
And itâs not just out there⌠itâs in us. In our fatigue, in our avoidance, in the ways we say, âThatâs just how the world is now.â
No.
I reject that.
The world doesnât just become, it is built⌠by what we click, what we ignore, what we fund, and what we stay silent about.
This is the part where Iâm not yelling.
Because Iâm not angry.
Iâm clear.
There is no middle ground in moments like these.
Silence is a choice. Comfort is complicity. And neutrality is permission.
So hereâs what we must rememberâŚ
The line between apathy and evil isnât thick⌠itâs thin. And itâs crowdfunded.
And yet⌠there is another way.
We are not algorithms. We are awareness.
We are not crowds. We are conscience.
If the system is broken⌠we are the system.
If hate is funded, then let love be financed too. Let justice be resourced. Let healing be loud. Let our integrity be inconvenient.
And let the fire of truth, the one that burns inside the soul, become the only thing we refuse to sell.
Because if the worldâs buying noise, let your silence be sacred.
If itâs funding falsehood, let your integrity go broke.
And if the well is poisoned⌠start digging.
You were never meant to drink what corrodes you.
Walk away from the auction. Thereâs nothing there worth owning.
