Invisible Automatons

I see nothing but an automaton when I look at an Anglo female

Maybe I’ve been spoiled by women from other cultures.

Women who haven’t yet been redesigned by social engineers working on their dream of an Anglosphere that doesn’t just exist as an artificial world contemptuously foisted on top of the natural world like a denatured, silicone chipped, marble, asphalt, and glass corpse. But, an Anglosphere that proudly slits its collective wrists to divorce itself from its life-giving biology altogether.

Who needs to be “primitive” or worry about trite ideals like humanity when you’ve got so many gadgets around?

No arts. No humanity. No joy. No sorrow. No parents. No children. No family. No friends. No sex. A world unfolding that consists of human machines that still look like people, but who do nothing but gather resources to consume commodities the matrix tells them to consume.

I don’t see a woman when I look at an Anglo female, anymore. I know it’s a female but I don’t see it as I see other women when I leave the matrix. I see a creature, who while somewhat resembling myself doesn’t think like me. It only looks for things and people that it can consume. An automaton, built to exploit men and gather resources. Nothing matters to it except what it can consume.

It takes the shortest path to get what it wants. Why have a man around when you can push him out of his job and become your own resource provider? Why have a family when the state says it will take care of you?

Over there. That one. That’s not a boyfriend with her. That’s a provider module. That’s not a child with her, that’s a car payment and a future provider module once the old one has been discarded.

The other one. The older lady. She’s only holding on to her provider module because she can’t get another one at her age.

Only a truly sick culture could take a woman and turn her into this. This goddamned place has brought out the absolute worst in women. It turns out women were quite easy to turn into entities in the great machine of consumerism. Men will be harder to transform.

But the designers won’t stop until the gears are meshing properly inside the machine of the damned. Spengler knew the tragedy we are living through was coming a century ago when he wrote Man and Technics, sequel to Decline of the West.

All things organic are dying in the grip of organization. An artificial world is permeating and poisoning the natural. Civilization has itself become a machine that does, or tries to do, everything in a mechanical fashion.

I’m watching my own people die without a wit as to what’s happening to them or how they’ve poisoned themselves. Spengler knew men like me would come along who hate the machine culture.

The Faustian thought begins to be sick of machines. A weariness is spreading, a sort of pacifism in the battle with Nature. Men are returning to forms of life simpler and nearer to Nature; they are spending their time in sport instead of technical experiments. The great cities are becoming hateful to them, and they would fain get away from the pressure of soulless facts, from enslavement to the Machine, and the clear cold atmosphere of technical organization.

That’s me. The machine has stolen so much from us.

It’s such a puzzlement to wonder why people can’t see what is being stolen from them so they might live in an artificial reality. Call me romantic, but I liked the things that made us human before we started worshiping the machine.