It Hurts, Reality

This is the talk of a man, a culture, a civilization in its late stages. It will be a poem, an epitaph of Liberal Western Civilization:
“Squeeze lightly on the trigger (of an AR) and the resulting explosion of firepower is humbling and deafening (even with ear protection). The recoil bruised my shoulder, which can happen if you don’t know what you’re doing. The brass shell casings disoriented me as they flew past my face. The smell of sulfur and destruction made me sick. The explosions — loud like a bomb — gave me a temporary form of PTSD. For at least an hour after firing the gun just a few times, I was anxious and irritable.”
Filter all your contemporary empathetic emotions, egalitarian virtues, sensible feelings, and ideas of tempered manhood, just war, loving tolerance, bigotry and hate through the lens of this statement. For it is the words of weakness, decay, and death. A people who express such will not be around very long, for the earth is harsher than they are. They cannot reproduce themselves or face the abbrasive reality outside their tinsel utopias. And when the barbarians again are at the gate, they will do as the effeminate Romans did and stand statue-still. Perhaps we have gone even farther, as we welcome our overthrow with loving embrace and benign compassion.

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