Forwarded from Diary of an Underground Ronin
PASSION
The etymology of passion means "to suffer for love." I love learning the etymology of words because within it betrays the true nature of the phenomenon our ancestors discerned from life itself. We come to understand that pain is not a bug, but a feature. The sacrifice to attain. The fear associated with loss. The hurt of its tragic end. This applies to all things, but is first impactfully felt with the gain and loss of our first love.
Life, like love, is always tragic. First it manifests as a promise, a sacrament, then a loss. Each with its own intensity and beauty.
Understand that the life of a Fascist is always tragic. It starts with a fever dream, crescendos with a bitter fight, and concludes in a tragic end. Each calling, a song worth hearing. Each act, an opera. Each end, a beginning.
Within each of us there exists a Rome. Without, however, we are but one brick, one act, and one devotion towards that collective dream. Be proud and exalt your quest, no matter how modest, of placing your individual stone in our Eternal City; because the love we consummate from her is worth a thousand sweethearts.
She is my greatest love.
The etymology of passion means "to suffer for love." I love learning the etymology of words because within it betrays the true nature of the phenomenon our ancestors discerned from life itself. We come to understand that pain is not a bug, but a feature. The sacrifice to attain. The fear associated with loss. The hurt of its tragic end. This applies to all things, but is first impactfully felt with the gain and loss of our first love.
Life, like love, is always tragic. First it manifests as a promise, a sacrament, then a loss. Each with its own intensity and beauty.
Understand that the life of a Fascist is always tragic. It starts with a fever dream, crescendos with a bitter fight, and concludes in a tragic end. Each calling, a song worth hearing. Each act, an opera. Each end, a beginning.
Within each of us there exists a Rome. Without, however, we are but one brick, one act, and one devotion towards that collective dream. Be proud and exalt your quest, no matter how modest, of placing your individual stone in our Eternal City; because the love we consummate from her is worth a thousand sweethearts.
She is my greatest love.
Forwarded from Elders III
Allow me to write my sincere thoughts, with respect to the Third Reich, without any hot takes, nuances, or goofiness.
A pulling back from the learning from, and advancing upon with critique, if just for a moment.
The German Solider and SS Man are the closest we have to Heroes in our recent memory.
With fanatical zeal and courage, they waged war against the Communists and Capitalists alike.
With tragic determination, they laid down their lives in the final act. With loyalty unto death, they died smoldering in the ruins of their homeland, amidst the bodies of their kin and brothers in arms.
This is beautiful, this is glorious.
The sacrifice of this nation, was a terrible one, and utterly in vain.
We today, however, know that none of us are worth more than any one man who bore those hardships.
There is a fraternity, between we living and the honored dead. A fraternity that causes us to pick up the blooded and battered Steel Helmet of our Heroes, and don it ourselves.
It doesn't matter if it wobbles around, as if it were on the skull of a child. It doesn't matter if we strictly abide by the 25 point plan. None of this matters.
It is not parties or programs that make history.
Men make history.
All of us who understand this, pick up the weapon and armor of the fallen, and proudly march with it into our own battle, into our own great undertaking.
A pulling back from the learning from, and advancing upon with critique, if just for a moment.
The German Solider and SS Man are the closest we have to Heroes in our recent memory.
With fanatical zeal and courage, they waged war against the Communists and Capitalists alike.
With tragic determination, they laid down their lives in the final act. With loyalty unto death, they died smoldering in the ruins of their homeland, amidst the bodies of their kin and brothers in arms.
This is beautiful, this is glorious.
The sacrifice of this nation, was a terrible one, and utterly in vain.
We today, however, know that none of us are worth more than any one man who bore those hardships.
There is a fraternity, between we living and the honored dead. A fraternity that causes us to pick up the blooded and battered Steel Helmet of our Heroes, and don it ourselves.
It doesn't matter if it wobbles around, as if it were on the skull of a child. It doesn't matter if we strictly abide by the 25 point plan. None of this matters.
It is not parties or programs that make history.
Men make history.
All of us who understand this, pick up the weapon and armor of the fallen, and proudly march with it into our own battle, into our own great undertaking.
Forwarded from Gus Driftwood
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Forwarded from RISING RACE
“The leftist is antagonistic to the concept of competition because, deep inside, he feels like a loser.”
— Theodore Kaczynski
— Theodore Kaczynski