Records of Metamodern Racist

You will never be a real alien. You have no hyperborean ancestry, you have no A10s, you have no vril. You are gray ayy lmao goblins

me knowing we brutally mog aliencels

right wing bros, tired of winning?

The Question is not whether one should make his own history—for it is not made but understood. Rather shall he ponder on the true questions of his life: Shall he be a carved rock, or a dot on the Book of Man? Or shall he be a howling thunder echoing across ages?

As I watch the city maneuver itself around me through the industrial glass cage within which i find myself enshrined i gaze upon a genocide - a massacre of genuinity. Each aspect built by a nihilistic tendency - nurtured by a lack of care without love and without direction; a graveyard of humanity. Yet so bright are the headlights - with such an devastating glow they devour the shadows of uncertainty themselves. All that remains is impulse - at the defeat of the unknown. The linear river of the Styx is then crossed - it melts into the tunnel vision as do all things but the road itself - a twisting grapevine - a walking rope on which I walk carelessly the reaper following each step with a grim. And even the grand concrete towers - normally so mundane - appear as great monoliths of light, elevators to the heavens emboldened by the multicolored shine - rising into the dark skies where the moon herself returns their gaze. It is as if the world itself is amplified, the light tingle of adrenaline enchants the narrow turnabouts behind which awaits death itself. Speed itself brings to life a magic that was lost long ago. The wheels of my chariot squeal at command again and again narrowly avoiding catastrophe. We have found love in an age of indifference. A burning desire which lines the golden cord to the beyond. We have discovered sharpness through the dull blade of the modern condition. Shall we let it go for a chance to continue living? Shall we abandon it just to allow for the maggots to prolong the time for their next feast to arrive?

This is what every Nature edit should look like. This embodies the experience of Nature. Not hippie stuff. Nature is terrifying. Nature is brutal. Nature is beatiful.

On my balcony, I sip my Caribbean rum, gazing into the distant sea. Amidst this surreal moment, I care not whether I tread the line of pretense, for I must unburden my soul. A diabolical energy courses through my veins, akin to venomous tendrils. On the outside, I feel like in a harmonious state of flow. Yet, within the labyrinth of my psyche, a tempest of frenzy stirs. My subconscious no longer cares. At this point anything will satisfy me. I have an insatiable thirst that scoffs at the labels of christian, pagan, satanic, or Nazi esotericism, for my ego is simple, and it yearns for a warrior religion. The labels hold no dominion; I seek a White Warrior Religion adorned with righteous principles. These thoughts have besieged my very essence, an aspiration I cast upon the entire Western world. As for myself, I envision a high castle, draped in opulence, where my brethren and I stand ready, smoking cigars and awaiting the summons. I conjure visions of ethereal women, their beauty a celestial halo that encircles me. I traverse distant battlefields, where the clash of blood and steel meets the roar of valor. There, I envision epochs of wars waged, empires forged through the crucible of conquest, and the haunting laments of my foes' women. I am unbridled, I am coursing through the winds of destiny at a breakneck pace of 300 kilometers per hour in my race car, and its engine revving at 9000 rpm liberating my soul. I breathe life into these notions, willing them into existence, an act akin to a Nietzschean frenzy that now governs my spirit. As Dostoyevsky famously said — I have a plan-to go mad.