A confession

Yesterday, on the day of the attempt on Donald Trump, I went to talk to the woman to whom I referred in my article a week ago about my desire to adopt a child.

I don’t write about news like the attempt because I don’t consider it important. To use my favourite metaphor, the one in the featured post, by looking at human reality from a retrocognitive meta-perspective I only value relevant events.

From this angle, I would like to confess that I have long since been able to fall asleep only by imagining nuclear mushroom clouds over the major capitals of the West due to a strategic war with Russia. Mixing the symbols of Martin’s novels with Tolkien, if Washington is Mordor, the capitals of the major Western countries are like various Isengards. What nobler thing could there be than to wish that these centres of ethnocidal power against the Aryan, along with Mordor, be incinerated?

A skirmish like yesterday’s means nothing from the point of view of the old man holed up in a cave far from the Wall contemplating the historical past. True, in reconciling sleep I am thinking with my emotions. Someone might tell me that in a nuclear conflagration, the Aryan baby could thus be thrown out with the dirty water and that although it is healthy to want eight billion Untermenschen to die in the nuclear winter, perhaps the same number should die better gradually, through energy devolution, so that the surviving Aryan has the chance, through our forums, to realise that only the religion that Uncle Adolf bequeathed us saves.

But that is not what emotions tell me, especially when trying to sleep or waking up in the night. In those moments only wishing that those mushroom clouds were already over the enemy cities calms me down. Following Jung’s vocabulary, what the Self already wants is an immediate cataclysm: an apocalypse that wipes out those billions of Orcs and the traitor kings turned into Sauron’s nine horsemen. In other words, let those on the American and European right discuss events like yesterday’s among themselves. Those of us who have been touched by the Self and have a blue mark on our arm see things differently.

The only thing that calms me, and I speak of that César now fully awake, clear-headed and out of bed, is that thanks to a slow apocalypse (due to peak oil) billions of obsolete versions of humans will be wiped out in the next hundred years. It reminds me of what Eduardo Velasco wrote from page 162 to the end of On Exterminationism when we read about an Aryan couple who, after the end of the world, will thirst to live to repopulate the Earth.