Anonymous
(ID: Ms+ebfUE)
6/26/2025, 1:33:03 AM
No.508737425
6/26/2025, 1:33:03 AM
No.508737425
>>508736232
I look up to the Romans and Greeks, not to my Celtic ancestors, and so, too, will your descendants do when they look back upon Europe. We revere not what we are born from, but what we wish we had been born into.
The pendulum swing between high civilization and dark ages is not merely historical necessity. It is a rhythm etched into time itself, perhaps even God's will, inscrutable and severe. Yet here I stand, in a moment of strange privilege: to live within the twilight of a culture, aware that civilizations built atop the ashes of empires, like Christianity once did, and now Islam, do not merely inherit ruins, but scavenge power from beneath them.
They draw unseen strength from what lies buried: forgotten sacrifices, cracked ideals, aborted hopes. This rebirth will be unjust. Not because it is strong, but because it will refuse to see the pain, the silent labor, the centuries of invisible work that made its ascent possible.
Roots seethe in the dark at flowers, but flowers never stoop to look at roots. They gaze only at other flowers, admiring the bloom, blind to the dirt that feeds them.
I look up to the Romans and Greeks, not to my Celtic ancestors, and so, too, will your descendants do when they look back upon Europe. We revere not what we are born from, but what we wish we had been born into.
The pendulum swing between high civilization and dark ages is not merely historical necessity. It is a rhythm etched into time itself, perhaps even God's will, inscrutable and severe. Yet here I stand, in a moment of strange privilege: to live within the twilight of a culture, aware that civilizations built atop the ashes of empires, like Christianity once did, and now Islam, do not merely inherit ruins, but scavenge power from beneath them.
They draw unseen strength from what lies buried: forgotten sacrifices, cracked ideals, aborted hopes. This rebirth will be unjust. Not because it is strong, but because it will refuse to see the pain, the silent labor, the centuries of invisible work that made its ascent possible.
Roots seethe in the dark at flowers, but flowers never stoop to look at roots. They gaze only at other flowers, admiring the bloom, blind to the dirt that feeds them.