I can’t. I don’t want much from life. I am an ordinary man.

These are the sentences which the degraded half-human being in the age of postmodernism has chosen for its slogan. The three phrases that deserve the strongest contempt have turned into the moral grounds of our world.

Nobody cares about the truth anymore. Our time has outlived concepts such as genius, might, and progress. The ability was replaced by its own absence. No one is more capable than the other one. Everyone is at the same level and to say that you can do more is selfish and cruel. You have no right to be better. It’s your moral duty to lower yourself to those who cannot rise. At the same time, people are acting like being helpless is a good thing. They say “I can’t” out loud, searching for the approval of the others like they have achieved something incredible. People scream how useless they are day and night, preaching some vague moral code which forces every person with abilities to serve them.

In a lowered society only weakness can be a moral value. And the more negligible you are, the more power you can have. Power over the great ones, over those who carry the world on their shoulders, over the man who wants to progress.

People have no dreams and that makes them feel good. All they have is superficial fads, scattered in the mud like rice beans. To be brave enough to ask for the sun is a crime. High goals are unacceptable.  Not asking for much from life is the only reasonable thing. Who are you to have desires? How dare you ask for something more than useless crap? The social code requires you to be satisfied with misery, just like everybody else. The social code demands from you to doom yourself to unhappiness and give up on the battle of your life. But while reconciliation with a reality that’s much stronger than you is an abyss, being proud of that reconciliation is meanness unworthy of comparisons. A person who does not want much from life does not deserve even the little that he has.


But the contemporary primates have gone even further in their disgusting sickness. They have stigmatized the most sacred thing in their life as something filthy and useless that they should never speak of – their own individuality. “I am an ordinary man” – the lowest sentence, which can be pronounced only by a creature with an empty soul, a dead mind and a broken spine. Wasn’t it disgusting enough that the System called you that way? Wasn’t it disgusting enough that you accepted that name and started wearing it proudly on your chest? Is it really necessary for you to give up on yourself and to throw your eyes into a cage? There is nothing more pathetic than to turn into a gray slobbery mash, made of your own copies, and not because someone else forced you, but because you are incapable of being anything else.

In our world, the lowest and nastiest creature is on the pedestal. A single cell without abilities, strength and talent. The cowardly rat who can’t allow himself to love a tiger. The grotesque abomination that called itself ordinary. In this world, the man is a monster.

And in this world I say:

I can. I have the power to define reality. I can create worlds with the pulsating energy of my mind and the destructive storms in my soul. The impossible is just a piece of time that tastes like freedom. The Universe belongs to me.

I want Life itself. Every moment of it, every refracted ray, every drop of blood, every inch of frozen desolation that’s burning my feet. I want an earthquake – a fountainhead of light and steel-gray thrill that brings the senses to insanity. I want to see the stars between my fingers and to feel the sea storms in my hair. I want to be Everything so that I can face the uncompromising power of Love.

I am an absolutely unordinary man. There never was anyone like me and there never will be. I am here to experience myself. To explore every one of my shades. To go beyond myself.

I am an individual.

I am a monster.

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