He is misunderstood.
Often mistaken for absurdity, dismissed as incoherent, or cast aside as needless complexity. But none of this is his fault.
That’s simply how he came into the world:
born of contradiction, raised on the outskirts of logic,
forced to improvise meaning in a culture obsessed with clarity.

The Paradox.

Not a glitch in the system, but the system’s hidden mirror.
Once you stop mistaking him for error, for inconsistency, or mere incongruence, you begin to see him for what he truly is:
the brother you never had.

If Truth is a Person, then Paradox is the estranged sibling — the one we avoid in public, but to whom we secretly owe a statue.
Not for his consistency (he has none),
nor for his charm (though it’s dangerous and real),
but because without him, we’d never dare write lines like:

My sadness hears the unborn dogs
Barking at the unborn men.

A statue for Paradox —
cast in contradiction, mounted somewhere between rapture and philosophical nausea —
to honor the way he reflects the truth in our confusion,
and the beauty we’ve been taught to reject.

He clarifies so sharply,
your only honest response is bewilderment.

He was there when Aristotle inked his syllogisms,
and again when Gödel gently pulled the rug from under them.
He’s the reason first principles can be both abstract and violently tactile.
He’s why nonsense sometimes tells the truth better than syntax can handle:

You won’t silence, you won’t flame,
You won’t yesterday your name.
You won’t walk with feet of maybe,
You won’t cradle, you won’t baby.
You won’t thunder through your doubt,
You won’t neither nor without.
You won’t rain, and you won’t thirst,
You won’t second, you won’t first.
You won’t mirror, won’t be seen,
You won’t never not between.
You won’t always, won’t begun—
You won’t no one. You won’t one.

Paradox is the quiet law behind every system that collapses under its own elegance.
He reminds us that every model is true — and also false — often in the same sentence.
He gave us the set of all sets that do not contain themselves.
He’s why Hercules overtakes — and doesn’t overtake — the tortoise.
He’s the one who turned Truth into a man:
that is, into inconsistency wrapped in skin.

He whispers what philosophers fear to write:

Every aporia has a solution.
And no, it doesn’t.

Einstein’s happiest thought?
A falling man — the very image of a cosmic accident.
Newton’s breakthrough?
A blow to the head.

You begin to suspect that genius
is just collapse performed with grace.

Follow physics to its trembling edge,
and you’ll find that what we call attraction
might be repulsion wearing a kind disguise.

Because Paradox doesn’t comfort.
He doesn’t resolve.
He teaches you to walk through contradiction so sharp
it teaches you how to bleed.

So yes.
He is the brother I never had.
And he deserves more than polite dismissal
or a footnote in someone else’s theorem.