If I had the kind of power that would determine whether people lived or died, the sad men who can only convince themselves of their own humanity by laughing at the pain of monsters would probably be the very least of my concerns.
Well, for good or for evil, I'm no god and, shameful though it is to admit, spending an entire lifetime enslaved to Nature's sideshow does engender just a little bit of hostility, just a modicum of resentment. Day after day human beings lining up to laugh at you, pounding their fists against the glass barriers separating the world of the human from the world of the freak, does grow a bit tiresome, doesn't it? Remain silent, try to find some sort of seclusion of the shadows cast by the cheap sulfur bulbs illumining your cell, and their scream to the carnival barker that they've been cheated. They want a show, after all.
So the master of this most unceremonious ceremony whips and beats the things in his possession and under his control until their lash out, froth at the lips, scream obscenities and all the rest. The carnival patrons sigh a breath of relief, pay the barker his fee, and begin the satisfying work of condemning the monsters on display for being the nasty things that that are.
What to do with the sideshow guests, indulging in their guilty pleasures in the dead of night or, now that we've become too sensitive for freak shows and the sideshow tents have been razed, under the aegis provided by the anonymity of the internet?
Break the pane of glass separating us in some grand revolt? Wrap our twisted fingers around their throats? Choke the life from them, taking some tiny solace that their lifetime of laughter is reaching its conclusion with terror and, well, tears?
A nice fantasy, I suppose. Not a proud one, sure, but the sort of horrible thought that becomes nice during the witching hour when you've managed to drink God under the table and he is fast asleep.
But, when all is said and done, it's nothing more than a monster's happy dream and God's nightmare. And the latter inevitably wakes up, the morning always comes and the bad things born in the dark, and to the dark, are driven back to their proper place: screaming behind the pane of glass of the sideshow. The pane of glass has changed as we've become more sophisticated; what was once a window is now a monitor. The only thing that's changed about the engines Nature employs in Her war against Her abortions is that they've become prettier, shinier, more sanitized. Blood is still spilled; progress is the fact that those who take pleasure in it never have to smell its cupric stench. They have distance from the act of brutality and, through this marvelous innovation, the dirty, visceral joy men once took in watching monsters tortured has become the lofty condemnation angels pronounce as they sit in judgement of devils.
The lovely will always laugh at the ugly, the healthy will always despise the sick. Cuckolded men will always pay some sleazy carnival barker a penny to laugh at abominations; small price to pay for men who, though their love has been betrayed, can take some small solace in witnessing the agony of things who have never been, and will never be, loved at all.
/r/inceltears is just one of the Hydra's many myriad heads. Lop it off, and a thousand will spring up in its place ready to swallow us up. Just as it has and will always be. Nature has Her monsters, and incels.is is proof enough of that. God also has His rough beasts; /r/inceltears is just one among many.
Fellow soldiers of the Night, conscripts in Chaos's army, we lost the moment we first took breath.
How couldn't you have been aware of this? After all, in the proper lighting and at the right angles, the glass that separates freaks from men can serve as a mirror.
Well, for good or for evil, I'm no god and, shameful though it is to admit, spending an entire lifetime enslaved to Nature's sideshow does engender just a little bit of hostility, just a modicum of resentment. Day after day human beings lining up to laugh at you, pounding their fists against the glass barriers separating the world of the human from the world of the freak, does grow a bit tiresome, doesn't it? Remain silent, try to find some sort of seclusion of the shadows cast by the cheap sulfur bulbs illumining your cell, and their scream to the carnival barker that they've been cheated. They want a show, after all.
So the master of this most unceremonious ceremony whips and beats the things in his possession and under his control until their lash out, froth at the lips, scream obscenities and all the rest. The carnival patrons sigh a breath of relief, pay the barker his fee, and begin the satisfying work of condemning the monsters on display for being the nasty things that that are.
What to do with the sideshow guests, indulging in their guilty pleasures in the dead of night or, now that we've become too sensitive for freak shows and the sideshow tents have been razed, under the aegis provided by the anonymity of the internet?
Break the pane of glass separating us in some grand revolt? Wrap our twisted fingers around their throats? Choke the life from them, taking some tiny solace that their lifetime of laughter is reaching its conclusion with terror and, well, tears?
A nice fantasy, I suppose. Not a proud one, sure, but the sort of horrible thought that becomes nice during the witching hour when you've managed to drink God under the table and he is fast asleep.
But, when all is said and done, it's nothing more than a monster's happy dream and God's nightmare. And the latter inevitably wakes up, the morning always comes and the bad things born in the dark, and to the dark, are driven back to their proper place: screaming behind the pane of glass of the sideshow. The pane of glass has changed as we've become more sophisticated; what was once a window is now a monitor. The only thing that's changed about the engines Nature employs in Her war against Her abortions is that they've become prettier, shinier, more sanitized. Blood is still spilled; progress is the fact that those who take pleasure in it never have to smell its cupric stench. They have distance from the act of brutality and, through this marvelous innovation, the dirty, visceral joy men once took in watching monsters tortured has become the lofty condemnation angels pronounce as they sit in judgement of devils.
The lovely will always laugh at the ugly, the healthy will always despise the sick. Cuckolded men will always pay some sleazy carnival barker a penny to laugh at abominations; small price to pay for men who, though their love has been betrayed, can take some small solace in witnessing the agony of things who have never been, and will never be, loved at all.
/r/inceltears is just one of the Hydra's many myriad heads. Lop it off, and a thousand will spring up in its place ready to swallow us up. Just as it has and will always be. Nature has Her monsters, and incels.is is proof enough of that. God also has His rough beasts; /r/inceltears is just one among many.
Fellow soldiers of the Night, conscripts in Chaos's army, we lost the moment we first took breath.
How couldn't you have been aware of this? After all, in the proper lighting and at the right angles, the glass that separates freaks from men can serve as a mirror.
