A Step into the Hidden Stairways // Crossroads.
There are three kinds of law.
One is written in books.
Another carried on the roads.
The third is written in thunder.
The first lives in codes, courts, and compromise.
It keeps the streets clean,
And the hands tied.
The second lives in the chest.
It speaks when the world turns cruel.
Or when you’re questioning your form.
Achilles carried it into battle.
It wasn’t just rage.
It was memory.
The kind that freezes.
Icarus was more Myshkin.
Tasted it midair.
It was will.
The kind that burns.
The third isn’t spoken.
It’s struck.
John Bonham plays with the kind of law you don’t learn.
Every snare was a principle,
Every bell, a hymn bound to rhythm.
You feel it—in the gut, in the jaw,
In the instant everything waits.
He didn’t keep time. He declared it.
Because when Bonham struck,
He wasn’t only keeping rhythm.
This is the law they never teach.
It can’t be memorized.
Only summoned.
In moments when justice isn’t in the books —
It’s in your bones.
Achilles knew he had to fight.
He had a hunch that the world would never understand.
But he fought anyway.
Icarus didn’t know the cost.
He flew into the skies with prophecy in his throat.
And got burnt for it.
That could’ve been ego.
That could’ve been the law of the chest:
To stand, even when it ends you.
But thunder—
Thunder doesn’t beg to be believed.
It arrives.
Loud.
Sharp.
Staccato.
Reverberation.
There are stairways — hidden, sacred, timeless.
But they don’t reach heaven unless something steady holds below.
And Bonham was that something.
His foot was the anchor.
His soul was the pulse.
The crossroads are a test.
Of willpower.
Of principles.
And passion will carry you the same way you carry it.
Because when the system folds,
when the room goes quiet,
when no one else stands—
You either follow thunder,
Or you disappear.
Led Zeppelin.