The whole “Aryan” idea is just the West’s version of the noble savage fantasy — a masturbatory hallucination where the imagined ancestor is pure, strong, beautiful, and tragically lost to time. It’s not history, it’s self-flattering cosplay. The Nazis didn’t invent it, they just injected steroids into a 19th-century romantic myth born out of colonial philology and racial pseudoscience. In reality, the so-called Aryans were just another messy, intermixing group in the churn of human migration, no cleaner or holier than anyone else. The fantasy persists because it gives weak moderns something to project their lost vitality onto, as if purity and greatness are sitting somewhere in their DNA, just waiting to be resurrected. It’s easier to worship an imaginary ancestor than to face the reality of their own decay.

The brutal truth is that the “Aryan” dream functions exactly like Rousseau’s noble savage — it’s an escape hatch for people who can’t stomach modernity’s filth but also can’t create anything better. Instead of building a culture worth living in, they daydream about a bloodline that will magically fix everything. It’s a lazy man’s nationalism, a genetic religion with no scriptures except pseudoscience charts and mythic paintings. The irony? The more they cling to it, the more it proves they have no living culture left — because cultures with real power don’t need fairy tales about where they came from, they demonstrate it in the present. The “Aryan” is dead, if it ever existed at all, and the worshippers are really just kneeling at a taxidermy mount of their own imagined glory.