Nobody cares about your happiness.
Nobody cares about your goals.
Nobody cares about your ambitions.
Nobody cares about what you want.
Actually, maybe that’s not all true. Some people do care, but only insofar as it affects them. Their “caring” could also come in the form of trying to stop you, actually that’s probably the case.
Crying on the street? No one will notice. One crying woman can launch a dozen police cars, a firetruck, concerned friends and family, and all forces of bureaucratic and judicial might from the municipal all the way up to the UN. Ever see a man crying in public? Me either, but if you did you’d probably get called a bum and arrested. I’m sure he’s guilty of something.
This partly feels like bitching and moaning, but it’s important to come to terms with what it means to be a man in this wicked world of ours. As far as I can tell, being a man means recognizing that the entire world is against you and has contrived to ensure your failure yet you endure. That happiness, those goals, those ambitions: no one is going to give them to you. You have to take it.
It was Fidel or Che or another of those commies who said if he had to do it all over again, he would have gone smaller — 10-12 men wholly dedicated to the cause, fearless. Are there 10 men alive today ready to do that? Are there 10 men who are unafraid to take what they want?
We do a lot of writing and talking about how the world should be. Well, guess what? It ain’t! It isn’t, and it won’t be like you want it unless you make it that way. It’s easy to write a blog post (myself included). Making the world as you will, that’s fucking hard. It’s dangerous. It’s deadly.
Funny thing about that death thing. What happens when you die? Nothing here, from what I can tell. There’s crying and this and that, but people move on. They have to. The world keeps spinning.
Being a man is kind of like living your whole life dead. Nobody cares, nobody notices, nobody nothing.
But I don’t want it to be like that, you say. It’s not fair!
You want it different? Then find those 10 men and ride down from the mountaintop screaming bloody murder under the flag of your making.
It’s the only way.
Tell me, who’s ready to send fire-forged steel through the fluffy, feather-filled pillows of this wicked world we called modernity? Who’s ready to ride? Am I? Are you?
This is Eden’s Thaw, on one foot at the edge of the abyss…