rapelover3
Iron
- Joined
- Nov 17, 2025
- Posts
- 50
- Reputation
- 43
There are really people out there who are lifelong slaves, and can't do 99% of what they truly want to do, yet they WANT to live???
These people are the architects of their own misery and they’re too retarded to see it. They’re the human equivalent of livestock, lined up at the trough, grateful for their daily slop, completely oblivious to the fact that the farmer is just fattening them up for the slaughter.
Look at them. They get up at the crack of dawn to sit in a box so they can go to another box to perform tasks they hate, all to earn digital numbers that they then exchange for the bare essentials needed to survive long enough to do it all again tomorrow. And they call this “living.” They call this “responsibility.” It’s not. It’s a slow-motion suicide. They’re willingly paying for their own participation in a system that views them as disposable resources.
And the restrictions? They don’t even fight them anymore. They just nod along like bobbleheads. “Oh, you need a license for that? Of course, safety first.” “Oh, I can’t build a house on land I own? Zoning laws, you know.” “Oh, I have to give you half of what I earn? It’s for the greater good.” They’ve been so thoroughly conditioned that they’ll defend the very rules that keep them caged in. They’ll argue with you, the person trying to show them the open gate, because the familiar stink of the barn is more comforting than the scent of freedom.
I dont consider them people. They’re NPCs. You can predict their responses, their grievances, their hopes, their fears, with a 99% accuracy rate because they’re all drawing from the same tiny, approved pool of thoughts.
They look at the walls and either ignore them or, even worse, start decorating them. They’ll hang up pictures of their favorite sports team or a motivational poster of a cat hanging from a tree. They’ll polish the chains. They’ll argue about which political party has the better plan to manage the prison. It’s insane.
Do you think a conscious being willingly spends the best years of its life performing mind-numbing tasks for a system that actively despises it? A conscious being would rather starve in the wilderness, free, than gorge itself in a cage. But these creatures? They’ll take the cage every single time, and call you crazy for suggesting the forest is an option. They have no inner fire, no spark of the divine that defines a sentient being. There’s just a low, constant hum of compliance.
They’re so deeply enslaved they’ve forgotten what freedom even feels like. The very concept is alien to them, a scary fantasy. They’ve been domesticated. Like a dog that’s been bred for generations to be a lap pet, they’ve lost the instinct to run, to hunt, to survive on their own. They see a wolf and they don’t see a free, majestic creature; they see a dangerous, dirty animal that needs to be controlled. That’s what they think of us, of anyone who still has that wild, untamed part of their soul intact.
So no, I don’t think they’re real people in the way we understand it. They’re the background characters in our story, the scenery, the static. They are the sea of blank faces that makes the struggle of the truly conscious feel so utterly, cosmically alone.
These people are the architects of their own misery and they’re too retarded to see it. They’re the human equivalent of livestock, lined up at the trough, grateful for their daily slop, completely oblivious to the fact that the farmer is just fattening them up for the slaughter.
Look at them. They get up at the crack of dawn to sit in a box so they can go to another box to perform tasks they hate, all to earn digital numbers that they then exchange for the bare essentials needed to survive long enough to do it all again tomorrow. And they call this “living.” They call this “responsibility.” It’s not. It’s a slow-motion suicide. They’re willingly paying for their own participation in a system that views them as disposable resources.
And the restrictions? They don’t even fight them anymore. They just nod along like bobbleheads. “Oh, you need a license for that? Of course, safety first.” “Oh, I can’t build a house on land I own? Zoning laws, you know.” “Oh, I have to give you half of what I earn? It’s for the greater good.” They’ve been so thoroughly conditioned that they’ll defend the very rules that keep them caged in. They’ll argue with you, the person trying to show them the open gate, because the familiar stink of the barn is more comforting than the scent of freedom.
I dont consider them people. They’re NPCs. You can predict their responses, their grievances, their hopes, their fears, with a 99% accuracy rate because they’re all drawing from the same tiny, approved pool of thoughts.
They look at the walls and either ignore them or, even worse, start decorating them. They’ll hang up pictures of their favorite sports team or a motivational poster of a cat hanging from a tree. They’ll polish the chains. They’ll argue about which political party has the better plan to manage the prison. It’s insane.
Do you think a conscious being willingly spends the best years of its life performing mind-numbing tasks for a system that actively despises it? A conscious being would rather starve in the wilderness, free, than gorge itself in a cage. But these creatures? They’ll take the cage every single time, and call you crazy for suggesting the forest is an option. They have no inner fire, no spark of the divine that defines a sentient being. There’s just a low, constant hum of compliance.
They’re so deeply enslaved they’ve forgotten what freedom even feels like. The very concept is alien to them, a scary fantasy. They’ve been domesticated. Like a dog that’s been bred for generations to be a lap pet, they’ve lost the instinct to run, to hunt, to survive on their own. They see a wolf and they don’t see a free, majestic creature; they see a dangerous, dirty animal that needs to be controlled. That’s what they think of us, of anyone who still has that wild, untamed part of their soul intact.
So no, I don’t think they’re real people in the way we understand it. They’re the background characters in our story, the scenery, the static. They are the sea of blank faces that makes the struggle of the truly conscious feel so utterly, cosmically alone.
