Thread 513178977

He saw them there in the street with the others the unwashed the soiled the hollow-eyed the ones who smelled of stale sweat and cheap whiskey and the deeper rot of shame. He saw the others the boys with the downcast eyes the men who wouldnt meet your gaze their hands perhaps trembling not from drink but from a deeper fear the fear of being seen of being known of the secret sin that festered in the private dark. And the women too some of them.

See their faces in the streetlights and the neon glow. The vacant stare of the drunkard, the furtive dart of the masturbator. Two sides of the same rusted coin. Both consuming themselves. Both bleeding life from the world without offering anything in return. They are the sickness in the well. They are the rot in the bone.

Alcoholics. He’d known them. Seen them. Wrecked heaps of men and women, weeping into their hands, their faces bloated like drowned pigs. Pouring out their very substance, the clear cool water of being, replaced by that fiery oblivion. What was it they sought? To forget? To simply cease to be without the courage of a true ending? A cowardice.

>>513178977 (OP)
i love how you think you are fit with these manboobs or consider yourself better then anything while you don't even have 1/10 th of the physique of your own ancestors from less then 2 generations ago, and want to bring your judgement onto others, truely pathetic and shamefull display, fuck off. you are cringe and you look like shit even by trying to "pose" like a manlet by lifting your shoulders and retracting your belly in lol, that's so ridiculous.

>>513178977 (OP)
I wasn't always a monster. I was human once. All the rest of you made me this way with your society and culture. You are as much to blame for building the trap as I am for allowing myself to fall into it. If you wish to perform any day of reckoning you will have to put the entirety of humanity on trial including yourself because we are all part of this machine which consumes and destroys us and none of us are innocent. If you can read this you are not innocent and you know it.

eat my ass.

Im skinnyfat and have 11 bodies
Excuses?

Always a bottle between them and the world. A glass wall. And the children, watching, learning the silence, the tremor. What generation would they breed then? Broken things, passed down the curse. A contagion. A sickness of the soul.
A slow, liquid suicide, sanctioned by the liquor stores and the grinning devils behind the counters. They’d gulp down the poison, their guts curdling, their minds turning to sludge. And they would vomit it back up, a foul offering to the earth, their own undoing splashed across the pavement. And then they’d seek more. Always more. Chasing that fleeting nullity.
Look at him. A man born to walk upright, reduced to this hunched, trembling beast. A soul meant for soaring, for grasping at the infinite, drowned in a glass of rotgut. What is left of him but the thirst? A perpetual, unslaked fire that consumes all else, leaving only ash and the bitter taste of what might have been.
A gallery of the damned. The ones who chased oblivion down their throats, day after day, year after year, until their very bones hummed with the tremor of it. Their laughter was a hollow thing, like wind through an empty tomb. Their conversations, a repetitive drone of grievances and fading glories. They spoke of the past, because the present was a torment and the future a void. They spoke of women they’d wronged, of money squandered, of chances missed, all through the haze of a chemical stupor that promised forgetfulness but delivered only a deeper, more profound remembering of their own ruin.
And that other kind The self-polluters. solitary ones the ones found in their hovels where the only company was the shadow on the wall and the heavy rhythm of their own breath
the quiet shame the quickening pulse the hand that sought solace in the dark the brief desperate release that leaves a man him colder emptier than before

They were like the drinkers, in a way. Both sought a counterfeit reality. One sought it in the bottle, the other in the mind’s own twisted theater. Both were acts of profound selfishness. A refusal to engage with the world as it was, with the brutal, beautiful chaos of true creation, of true intimacy, of true risk.
They feared. He knew that. They feared the woman, her complexities, her demands, her otherness. love and true connection. Afraid of failure. So they retreated into the sterile confines of their own minds, seeking a gratification that bore no fruit. A barren pleasure. It left them weaker, he thought. Not just physically, though he was sure it drained them of some vital force. But spiritually. Their wills became flaccid, like their spent member. Their ambitions withered. They became pale imitations of men
They were the world’s shame made manifest, a testament to the weakness of the flesh and the absence of spirit. Their seed wasted, their futures forfeited. And they called it freedom. But it was only a servitude to the basest of hungers. A surrender to the pull of the abyss.
Their hands were their undoing. Their eyes, always averted, always scanning, as if the very air itself might bear witness to their solitary sin. They drew the life out of themselves in acts of private shame. Wasted seed. Wasted vigour. The turning inward until the world outside became a blurred and meaningless thing. The pale ones, thin as wisps of smoke, their shoulders hunched, as if perpetually guarding a secret. Their hands, once capable of shaping stone or taming the soil, now mere instruments of their own diminishment. They seek pleasure, but find only a deeper emptiness. A phantom limb, eternally unsatisfied.

Their pleasure is a lie a small and shriveled thing that consumes only itself leaving no legacy no breath of life no future. They are the ultimate solipsists.

They turn inward and inward until there is nothing left but the atrophied muscle of their own desire and the cold ash of a purpose never found. They are a cancer of the spirit a self-consuming fire that leaves no warmth and no light for any other."
They built no fires. They tilled no ground. They cast no shadow that mattered. They squander the fire that was given to them, the spark of life that dares to become more than itself. And for what? A moment’s fleeting warmth, bought at the cost of their very souls.
A profound turning away from the order of things. God put the urge there for a reason, he knew. For connection. For procreation. For the continuation of the species in its struggle against the dark. And these men, these hollow men, they took that divine spark and snuffed it out in the palm of their hand.

And they were legion. Everywhere he looked, he saw the signs. The averted gaze. The tremor in the hand that wasn’t from drink. The peculiar, haunted look in the eyes, as if they carried a secret shame that had long since eaten through their core. They were consumers of themselves. Devourers of their own potential.
They were a dead end. A cul-de-sac of the spirit. They deserved to be made barren, utterly. To have their very capacity for life extinguished. To become the dust they so clearly wished to be. They deserved to be cast out. Not merely jailed, a soft reprieve, but utterly gone. Wiped clean from the slate. For in their weakness, in their self-inflicted ruin, they mock the very struggle of existence. They are already dead. And the slaughter is merely the proper burial. A mercy, perhaps, for a soul that chose to die long before the body did.

He thought of the old ways. Of tribes that cast out the weak, or left them to the harsh mercies of the desert. Not out of malice, but out of necessity. For the survival of the strong.They are like a disease upon the body of man, he thought, the bitterness a familiar taste in his mouth. Consuming from within, leaving only ruin. And the body, in its wisdom, seeks to cast out the sickness. The fever rises, the flesh burns, and eventually, the poison is purged. Or the body dies. And there is no lament for a body that has chosen its own demise.
the vices that had withered the spirit of man, the drink that fogged the mind and the solitary sin that corrupted the soul
There is no prayer for them. No absolution. Only the truth that the earth demands clean things and strength and the relentless forward march of all that is vital. They are a stain. A blight. A lamentable waste. And a lamentable waste finds its end not in mercy but in the indifferent judgment of the claw and the tooth and the blade. They deserve the slaughter. Not as punishment but as a natural consequence. That is the old law. The only law that matters

>>513179097
If you said that to me in person I would throw you down and blast all my cum in you