InanimatePragmatist
There is nothing for your genetics.
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2025
- Posts
- 6,208
- Reputation
- 8,626
Part 1: The Empty Affection Of Society
Normies, normies normies normies. They laugh. They kiss. They stagger through life in a dim-lit daze. Parties, entanglements, a new girl every few weeks, swipes on apps, pixelated affection, like moths in heat, burning themselves on synthetic fires. Yet not even a single one of them even see it. None of them listen to the dead silence between their heartbeats. They chase validation from the very machine that seeks to erase them. They live in permanent adolescence. Relationships aren’t even real anymore. It’s all just strategic mutual deceit, one party using the other as a balm for ego, a distraction, a warm body on cold nights. It’s not even betrayal when it ends. It’s routine, an expected and practiced soulless routine for the blind. Then comes the man. The one who dared to wait. The one who chose quiet over chaos. Patience over perversion. The one who didn’t play the game.
He is mocked for his patience. He is told he is a coward. A loser. Not “taking life by the throat,” as they say. Yet what does that mean? Groveling for the attention of a soulless host body whose only loyalty lies in the shifting winds of digital lust? No. That man, he is not a coward. He is the observer, the thinker, the last real mind. Even if he dies alone, he will never have sold his soul in exchange for being someone’s temporary dopamine fix. Better yet, he will die with a clear conscience. Something that the rest of mankind will suffer through with regret stained final moments.
They’ve all forgotten that time moves. That they will fade. That the parties will end. That the bodies they use and break will wither. That there will be a final hangover, one that doesn’t end in the morning, but follows them into the mirror at age 35, when it’s too late to start again and all their fake love has fermented into real regret. Even that is just the parturiation of the suffering that comes fourth. You all knew it the whole time but it felt good to ignore it, did it not? Whatever I should ignore you and you should ignore those who do meddle in such worthless minglings but back to the point. Let them ignore it. Let them believe in the cult of casual sex and call it freedom. Let them rot in “situationships” that have no future, only friction. They call it modern dating. I call it emotional necromancy.
So I say this to those few who still feel. If "love" never comes for you, good. You did not become someone’s turn. You did not lend your soul to the cycle. Your loneliness may hurt, but it is honest. It is better to be cold in truth than warm in delusion. Build up from your suffering, at least you will have the forsight to not destroy yourself in another manner.
Part 2: Blackpillers Are Just Men. Men, Nothing More.
Let me be honest for once. Not poetically honest. Not strategically or theatrically so. Let’s strip the veil from the blackpill community itself. Even here. Even in this supposed citadel of truth, there are cracks in the marble. Men posting softcore images of women as avatars, idolizing pornstars, ogling airbrushed illusions as they bark about “genetic determinism” and “truth.” Men who decry the flesh yet secretly long for it. Who claim to be philosophers but behave like addicts, addicted to what they claim to despise. You will call it "ironic" or "kino," but deep down it’s a confession. I know you would give it all up, every word you ever wrote or vocal you ever let out your lips. For just one woman to smile at you like if you mattered for once.
Not to have her. Not to keep her. Just to be seen. That is the great undoing. Not sex. Not love. But recognition. The blackpill does not die with a kiss. It dies the second a man believes, even for a heartbeat, that maybe this time it’ll be different. So you relapse. You crawl back to the very womb of the bluepill. Back to hope, like a fevered dog returning to its vomit. All it takes is one woman’s attention to unravel ten thousand hours of bitter enlightenment. Yet I see it, they are not heralds. They are not watchers, or architects of truth. They are men. Just men no no, they are just boys who are premature, stillborn emotionally and mentally. That is the horror, isn’t it? That most of us, if not all are unsuited for awareness. It is not a club you join. It is a sentence you receive. There are no heroes of the blackpill. Only victims. Only echoes and silence.
The truth is not empowering. It does not fill you. It empties you. It is not a sword, it is a scalpel and most lack the hands to wield it without carving their own sanity apart. So they cope. Oh, how they cope. They fill their profiles with women they will never touch. They write poetic elegies to looksmaxxing routines. They hallucinate salvation through surgery, clout, or "frame." They pretend there’s still a path forward but I know the truth and if you're still reading this, you probably do too. Most people were never meant to know. They were born to work, eat, breed, and die. Not to think. Not to see. The body was built to survive, not to understand. So it created a third state, one worse than living or dying. Coping.
That is the real default. The neural buffer zone between agony and awareness. Let the others dream. Let them chase smiles like fireflies, burning their fingers again and again. You? You stay cold. Stay dry. Stay untouched by the storm, because you are no longer a man. You are the echo left behind when the truth walks away. You are not you, you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. A vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities.
If you cannot comprehend that. Then leave the blackpill. It has no space for people who where not sentanced for it.
Normies, normies normies normies. They laugh. They kiss. They stagger through life in a dim-lit daze. Parties, entanglements, a new girl every few weeks, swipes on apps, pixelated affection, like moths in heat, burning themselves on synthetic fires. Yet not even a single one of them even see it. None of them listen to the dead silence between their heartbeats. They chase validation from the very machine that seeks to erase them. They live in permanent adolescence. Relationships aren’t even real anymore. It’s all just strategic mutual deceit, one party using the other as a balm for ego, a distraction, a warm body on cold nights. It’s not even betrayal when it ends. It’s routine, an expected and practiced soulless routine for the blind. Then comes the man. The one who dared to wait. The one who chose quiet over chaos. Patience over perversion. The one who didn’t play the game.
He is mocked for his patience. He is told he is a coward. A loser. Not “taking life by the throat,” as they say. Yet what does that mean? Groveling for the attention of a soulless host body whose only loyalty lies in the shifting winds of digital lust? No. That man, he is not a coward. He is the observer, the thinker, the last real mind. Even if he dies alone, he will never have sold his soul in exchange for being someone’s temporary dopamine fix. Better yet, he will die with a clear conscience. Something that the rest of mankind will suffer through with regret stained final moments.
They’ve all forgotten that time moves. That they will fade. That the parties will end. That the bodies they use and break will wither. That there will be a final hangover, one that doesn’t end in the morning, but follows them into the mirror at age 35, when it’s too late to start again and all their fake love has fermented into real regret. Even that is just the parturiation of the suffering that comes fourth. You all knew it the whole time but it felt good to ignore it, did it not? Whatever I should ignore you and you should ignore those who do meddle in such worthless minglings but back to the point. Let them ignore it. Let them believe in the cult of casual sex and call it freedom. Let them rot in “situationships” that have no future, only friction. They call it modern dating. I call it emotional necromancy.
So I say this to those few who still feel. If "love" never comes for you, good. You did not become someone’s turn. You did not lend your soul to the cycle. Your loneliness may hurt, but it is honest. It is better to be cold in truth than warm in delusion. Build up from your suffering, at least you will have the forsight to not destroy yourself in another manner.
Part 2: Blackpillers Are Just Men. Men, Nothing More.
Let me be honest for once. Not poetically honest. Not strategically or theatrically so. Let’s strip the veil from the blackpill community itself. Even here. Even in this supposed citadel of truth, there are cracks in the marble. Men posting softcore images of women as avatars, idolizing pornstars, ogling airbrushed illusions as they bark about “genetic determinism” and “truth.” Men who decry the flesh yet secretly long for it. Who claim to be philosophers but behave like addicts, addicted to what they claim to despise. You will call it "ironic" or "kino," but deep down it’s a confession. I know you would give it all up, every word you ever wrote or vocal you ever let out your lips. For just one woman to smile at you like if you mattered for once.
Not to have her. Not to keep her. Just to be seen. That is the great undoing. Not sex. Not love. But recognition. The blackpill does not die with a kiss. It dies the second a man believes, even for a heartbeat, that maybe this time it’ll be different. So you relapse. You crawl back to the very womb of the bluepill. Back to hope, like a fevered dog returning to its vomit. All it takes is one woman’s attention to unravel ten thousand hours of bitter enlightenment. Yet I see it, they are not heralds. They are not watchers, or architects of truth. They are men. Just men no no, they are just boys who are premature, stillborn emotionally and mentally. That is the horror, isn’t it? That most of us, if not all are unsuited for awareness. It is not a club you join. It is a sentence you receive. There are no heroes of the blackpill. Only victims. Only echoes and silence.
The truth is not empowering. It does not fill you. It empties you. It is not a sword, it is a scalpel and most lack the hands to wield it without carving their own sanity apart. So they cope. Oh, how they cope. They fill their profiles with women they will never touch. They write poetic elegies to looksmaxxing routines. They hallucinate salvation through surgery, clout, or "frame." They pretend there’s still a path forward but I know the truth and if you're still reading this, you probably do too. Most people were never meant to know. They were born to work, eat, breed, and die. Not to think. Not to see. The body was built to survive, not to understand. So it created a third state, one worse than living or dying. Coping.
That is the real default. The neural buffer zone between agony and awareness. Let the others dream. Let them chase smiles like fireflies, burning their fingers again and again. You? You stay cold. Stay dry. Stay untouched by the storm, because you are no longer a man. You are the echo left behind when the truth walks away. You are not you, you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. A vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities.
If you cannot comprehend that. Then leave the blackpill. It has no space for people who where not sentanced for it.
Last edited:
Use so crewl. 
