I feel like an edgy faggot posting this, but has anyone contemplated this so much that they actually think it might be true?
Read this and you tell me (quick read for a book):
http://www.theforbiddenreligion.com/gnostic-book.htm
Also @Fontaine would appreciate this topic.
http://www.theforbiddenreligion.com/gnostic-book.htm
Also @Fontaine would appreciate this topic.
Thanks for the link. Was looking for something like this. Mainlander, do you think we're in hell?
This is worst than hell
I don't see how hell could be any worse.
We're not supposed to be alive, so I guess so.
Hell doesn't exist, because it's the opposite of Heaven and Heaven is just a fantasy. Reality just sucks and there's no comforting explanation for why it sucks, it just does. Might is right in this universe we were born into, and we aren't mighty. Even the mighty don't stay mighty for long, eventually they get consumed by a greater force than even them. Existence is nothing more than a meat grinder, don't go looking for the meaning of it all, you wont like what you find.
If you ask Arthur Schopenhauer, then yes.
Well someone here fucked a dog to death on crack, Another has a blackpill sticker on the back of their car, Most trucels here are kissless and hugless virgins, A foid is selling single shit cookies for 20$ + shipping and handling just because she has a Vagina, A lot of people here probably would get a kick out of literal terrorism that supports their feelings, and I'm in between becoming ER 2.0, and becoming a transvestite. Probably.
Awesome, thanks. Time to get comfy for some reading.
there is no hell but life definitely sux
E
Complicated topic, this largely depends on your perception, as well as how you define an actual "hell".
No
Are we even living? 
Hard to say tbh. I went through a very pessimistic phase in which I thought yes, absolutely. But now I'm more inclined to "life is mostly bad and evil but not entirely".
Despite my nick I don't feel like dying right now so it would be a bit hypocritical to say life is 100% terrible and I wish I died right now.
But it's very hard to overlook some shit both Gnosis and pessimistic philosophy have to say.
Yes, but the name and idea of "hell" are misleading. It's a complicated question.
doubt it
Sometimes I wonder if Armageddon happened already and we got left behind
"This is Hell, nor are we out of it."
I'll admit that, like most people, I prefer Goethe's "Faust" to Marlowe's. The former, heretic and occultist that he was, knew in some small way his damnation was assured and, by virtue of that, felt at liberty to have some fun with it. Into what had traditionally been a stern morality play involving God and Satan, Heaven and Hell, Salvation and Damnation, Goethe injected philosophy and fantasy in equal measure. During Goethe's decades-long fever dream, Wicked Faust cavorted with witches during the long midnight of Walpurgisnacht only to later trade jibes with Presocratic thinkers; the reader was left to decide for himself which interaction was more scandalous. His communion with the Eternal Feminine spanned the entire spectrum: he prayed to the Virgin Mary as intercessor when he was an elderly man because, wrinkled and decrepit though he was, he understood that the Mother of all mothers would be willing to listen to the cries of even the most wretched of Her daughter's sons. Having regained his youth from the potions brewed by a witch who could grant loveliness to anyone except herself, Goethe's Faust went on to seduce an innocent young woman, impregnate her, and flee when she eventually murdered herself and the child he conceived with her. Well, Goethe recognized that the bleakest of horror can be redeemed by the most lurid myth and his horrible hero went on to pray to the Mothers who gave birth to all Creation. Not for the sake of learning how to sing in harmony with the music of the spheres but to conjure up lovely Helen from the Land of the Dead for the sole reason that, if he accomplished this nearly impossible task, he had the slightest chance of fucking her.
It goes without saying that Goethe's voluptuous epic is more tantalizing than Marlowe's stark little pamphlet. The German has offered us so much to think about, endless grist for fruitless discussions and meaningless dreams, as we scratch our wrinkled brows and stroke our withered old cocks. Eventually, impossibly for good and inevitably for evil, the foxfire of fantasy gutters out and fades to black. There's no dashing Mephisto waiting to escort us on some grand adventure where we become young once again, show us what human beings experience when they love and lose, only to lead us to that point where we're redeemed because, despite our faults, we were loved once and so are worthy to be loved forever. For all of his crimes, Faust was loved by God because one of His daughters sought fit to love him first. Well, we don't have that luxury, do we?
For us there's only Marlowe's grim Mephistophilis, the one who hates the light because he was never granted the opportunity to glimpse even the tiniest fraction of its radiance. As his sons, a smile would appear to us a predatory grin, the gentlest caress feel like a violent blow. I suppose our only privilege, we monsters who are entitled to nothing else, is that when the Devil appears before us in the dead of night he, Father of Lies though he may be to men, has no choice but to speak the truth to us:
"This is Hell, nor are we out of it."
I'll admit that, like most people, I prefer Goethe's "Faust" to Marlowe's. The former, heretic and occultist that he was, knew in some small way his damnation was assured and, by virtue of that, felt at liberty to have some fun with it. Into what had traditionally been a stern morality play involving God and Satan, Heaven and Hell, Salvation and Damnation, Goethe injected philosophy and fantasy in equal measure. During Goethe's decades-long fever dream, Wicked Faust cavorted with witches during the long midnight of Walpurgisnacht only to later trade jibes with Presocratic thinkers; the reader was left to decide for himself which interaction was more scandalous. His communion with the Eternal Feminine spanned the entire spectrum: he prayed to the Virgin Mary as intercessor when he was an elderly man because, wrinkled and decrepit though he was, he understood that the Mother of all mothers would be willing to listen to the cries of even the most wretched of Her daughter's sons. Having regained his youth from the potions brewed by a witch who could grant loveliness to anyone except herself, Goethe's Faust went on to seduce an innocent young woman, impregnate her, and flee when she eventually murdered herself and the child he conceived with her. Well, Goethe recognized that the bleakest of horror can be redeemed by the most lurid myth and his horrible hero went on to pray to the Mothers who gave birth to all Creation. Not for the sake of learning how to sing in harmony with the music of the spheres but to conjure up lovely Helen from the Land of the Dead for the sole reason that, if he accomplished this nearly impossible task, he had the slightest chance of fucking her.
It goes without saying that Goethe's voluptuous epic is more tantalizing than Marlowe's stark little pamphlet. The German has offered us so much to think about, endless grist for fruitless discussions and meaningless dreams, as we scratch our wrinkled brows and stroke our withered old cocks. Eventually, impossibly for good and inevitably for evil, the foxfire of fantasy gutters out and fades to black. There's no dashing Mephisto waiting to escort us on some grand adventure where we become young once again, show us what human beings experience when they love and lose, only to lead us to that point where we're redeemed because, despite our faults, we were loved once and so are worthy to be loved forever. For all of his crimes, Faust was loved by God because one of His daughters sought fit to love him first. Well, we don't have that luxury, do we?
For us there's only Marlowe's grim Mephistophilis, the one who hates the light because he was never granted the opportunity to glimpse even the tiniest fraction of its radiance. As his sons, a smile would appear to us a predatory grin, the gentlest caress feel like a violent blow. I suppose our only privilege, we monsters who are entitled to nothing else, is that when the Devil appears before us in the dead of night he, Father of Lies though he may be to men, has no choice but to speak the truth to us:
"This is Hell, nor are we out of it."
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We are living in a highly advanced computer simulation.
I some years ago I got appendicitis and was in severe pain for hours, that was hell, inceldom is a bliss compared to that.
we have eyes to see, we can move, we can talk, we can express ourselves but we can never fully enjoy life
and i don't mean like own lamborgini's and shit. i mean basic human stuff like hugging or kissing. we are beyond fucked and maybe this is hell and woman are hellspawn since they present all the characteristics of demons (vain,malicious,material,cunning)
and i don't mean like own lamborgini's and shit. i mean basic human stuff like hugging or kissing. we are beyond fucked and maybe this is hell and woman are hellspawn since they present all the characteristics of demons (vain,malicious,material,cunning)
idk man...every day i keep thinking more and more that we are in hell
Yes
C
Life isn't meant to be enjoyed.
An optimist likes to imagine we live in the best world possible.
A pessimist fears it.
A pessimist fears it.
We may as well be.
...and what they are giving can't compare
D
What if this planet is just another planet's hell?
S
Being an Incel has not been the worst part of my life. My formative years were very bad (so bad I should be dead). I have been convinced since the age of 8, that this is in fact, hell.
What happened?
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