The idea of the state of exception as outlined by Giorgio Agamben provides a lens through which we can examine how the police often function beyond the normal bounds of law, particularly in the management of marginalized populations. Agamben draws from Carl Schmitt’s notion that sovereignty is defined by the power to declare a state of emergency, which suspends the rule of law to protect the state. This suspension grants the sovereign—or in this case, law enforcement—unchecked authority to impose control. The state of exception does not apply only during crises; it becomes a permanent state for certain groups in society. In this context, policing becomes a tool for enforcing order not for the benefit of all, but to maintain hierarchies of power and protect property, leaving vulnerable populations continuously outside the protection of the law.

Humility about knowledge isn’t just a simple “I don’t know” statement—it’s a framework for navigating a world where people pretend to have all the answers. If anything, this journal entry pushes back against the tendency to be overconfident in what we think we know, especially in a world full of echo chambers and misinformation.

It may seem like complicating things. But this isn’t about intellectual superiority. It’s about recognizing a very simple, yet overlooked truth: none of us has the full picture. Sure, the language might feel heavy, but it reflects a personal journey.

Plato’s concept of knowing nothing is a central theme in philosophy, and it’s always been about humility. This kind of language is necessary when engaging with deep, introspective ideas that go beyond surface-level simplicity. We could talk about it more bluntly, but that would strip away the nuance of what’s being explored here.

I’m not trying to be overly intellectual; rather, I’m inviting reflection on something ancient and fundamental: the acceptance that knowledge is limited and ever-changing. It’s a practice that aligns with philosophical traditions, not a pretentious display of intelligence.

The historical roots of policing, particularly in the U.S. and Europe, reinforce this dynamic. Early police forces, such as the slave patrols in the American South or the Metropolitan Police Force in London, were established to protect property and maintain the status quo, particularly in the face of growing industrialization and the pressures of class and race relations. These early models of policing illustrate that law enforcement has always been tied to controlling marginalized groups, whether enslaved people, workers, or those deemed a threat to the social order. This remains true in modern forms of policing, where disproportionate use of force against racial minorities, poor communities, and political dissidents reflects a legacy of systemic control rather than protection.

This structure aligns with Michel Foucault’s concepts of discipline and surveillance. Foucault’s notion of the panopticon—a mechanism of control through constant surveillance—illustrates how modern policing not only enforces laws but also regulates and normalizes behavior. Law enforcement acts as a constant presence that deters deviation from the social norm, particularly in marginalized communities. For example, the racial profiling of Black and Latino individuals in the U.S. serves to criminalize entire populations, placing them under perpetual scrutiny, a clear continuation of historical patterns. The militarization of police in the U.S. further extends this state of exception, where marginalized populations become subjects of extreme force under the justification of national security or law and order, especially visible during protests or civil unrest. Police officers, operating with legal doctrines like qualified immunity, enjoy a level of impunity that allows them to exercise excessive force without accountability.

In addition to the historical and legal frameworks that shield police misconduct, the media plays a role in shaping public perceptions. Through sensationalized depictions of law enforcement in TV, film, and news, the public is often fed narratives that portray police as heroes defending against chaos, violence, or terrorism. This framing reinforces the idea that police misconduct, whether in the form of brutality or sexual violence, is an unfortunate but necessary byproduct of maintaining order. It justifies police excesses, particularly against marginalized groups, as acts of protection rather than oppression. The media's role in reinforcing these narratives can be tied to post-truth philosophy, where objective facts are de-emphasized in favor of emotional appeal and cultural myth-making. This leads to a situation where abuses by law enforcement are either minimized or presented as the unfortunate cost of security, even when data shows a significant and systemic issue.

Big data can further illuminate how this state of exception is not limited to one time or place but is a global phenomenon that transcends geographical and cultural boundaries. By analyzing policing patterns across different countries and historical periods, we can observe striking similarities in how law enforcement interacts with marginalized populations. From the colonial police forces of European empires, whose main task was to suppress indigenous populations and protect colonial interests, to the modern-day suppression of protest movements in Hong Kong or Belarus, law enforcement consistently operates as a mechanism to maintain social hierarchies and protect those in power, rather than ensuring equal justice.

Across different cultures and historical contexts, policing serves to protect the interests of the state or ruling class, often at the expense of vulnerable or disenfranchised groups. Whether we examine the G20 protests in Toronto in 2010, where peaceful protesters were met with extreme force, or the ongoing use of stop-and-frisk policies in the U.S., the pattern remains the same: police act as agents of a system designed to protect property and maintain order, often to the detriment of the marginalized. The post-truth reality that emerges from these situations is one in which power justifies itself through distorted narratives and selective truths, creating an atmosphere where abuses are simultaneously known and ignored.

This postmodern deconstruction of policing, through both philosophical frameworks and big data analysis, reveals that law enforcement’s primary function historically and in contemporary society is to regulate behavior and protect the interests of those in power, not to serve justice equally. By suspending the usual rules of accountability through mechanisms like qualified immunity and cultural narratives of law enforcement heroism, the police continue to operate in a way that disproportionately targets marginalized groups. This reveals a deeper truth about societal structures: law enforcement is not simply a response to crime, but an extension of the state's power, used to control those deemed outside the bounds of the social contract.

Well, here we are again, staring capitalism right in the face. And you know what? Maybe it is fundamentally flawed, not just by its own messy, greedy nature, but by the ancient ghosts that cling to it—the echoes of feudalism, slavery, and, yeah, the nastiest regimes we thought we left in the dust.

It’s easy to get swept up in capitalism’s promise of freedom and opportunity, but if you scratch beneath the surface, you can still smell the stench of those old systems. Feudalism never really died, did it? It just got a new outfit and showed up in the form of corporate monopolies, wealth hoarders, and the oligarchs of Wall Street. It’s like capitalism, for all its swagger, is still dragging the weight of these ancient chains.

And then there’s slavery—hardly a metaphor when you look at the global supply chains propped up by exploitative labor. We pat ourselves on the back for abolishing slavery, but what we really did was push it out of sight, into factories halfway across the world where no one’s watching. It’s capitalism’s dirty little secret: you can have your cheap gadgets and your fast fashion, but somebody else is paying the price in blood and sweat.

The worst part? You’ve got modern-day feudal lords walking around, not with crowns and scepters, but with corporate titles and golden parachutes. They sit at the top, cushioned by layers of privilege, while the rest scramble for whatever’s left. The gap between them and us? It’s not that different from the medieval days of serfs and lords. Feudalism just learned to speak the language of capitalism—profits, shareholders, "trickle-down economics"—but it’s the same old hierarchy.

And then, of course, there’s that haunting specter of authoritarianism, creeping around the edges. The world’s seen it before, and I swear, every time things get a little too unequal, a little too desperate, people start grasping for the strongmen again. Call them what you want—dictators, tyrants, fascists—they rise up in the cracks capitalism leaves behind, promising order and security in exchange for freedom. History loves a good repeat, doesn’t it?

You’d think we would have learned our lesson after the 20th century’s dark parade of authoritarian regimes. You’d think the world would have recoiled at the sight of people marching in lockstep, saluting dictators, crushing dissent, and erasing human dignity in the name of national glory. But here we are, watching the same old playbook resurface, as if we didn’t already know how the story ends.

There’s this ugly undertow beneath capitalism’s promise, this pull towards feudalism and fascism, and it thrives in the inequality that the system seems to breed. If the game’s too rigged, if too many people get shut out, there’s always someone waiting to take advantage of the discontent. That’s when the real danger starts—the people with just enough charisma, just enough cruelty, to promise salvation through control.

So yeah, I’ll admit it. Capitalism’s flawed, maybe even rotten at its core. It’s a game that, left unchecked, slips back into the worst of humanity’s tendencies—feudalism, slavery, authoritarianism, the whole dark carnival. It’s not inevitable, but it’s sure as hell possible. Capitalism can create winners, but it can also create a lot of losers, and when those losers pile up, history shows us what comes next.

The question, then, isn’t whether capitalism is better or worse than any other dream. The real question is how we stop the cycle—how we break the patterns that keep pulling us back into the jaws of feudal lords and wannabe dictators. Maybe it’s through reform, maybe it’s through sheer stubbornness, but one thing’s for sure: we can’t ignore the cracks forever.

The cracks are where the darkness creeps in.