Suicidal Empathy
Christianity • Socialism • Wokism
The Unholy Trinity Devouring the West
Behold the plague that gnaws your marrow—suicidal empathy! A mind-virus, birthed by bishops,
forced upon our ancestors by blade and pyre, now festering as the greatest threat from within, a self-inflicted wound bleeding the soul of our people dry!
The Foul Seed of the Death Cult
Cast ye eyes back to the dawn of this sickness, when Rome’s legions and Christian zealots, with fire and iron, razed the old ways of Europe’s tribes. From the ash of the once great Roman Empire rose
the doctrine of the Nazarene, a creed of meekness and pity that breeds eternal suffering.
“Love thy neighbor,”
they preached,
“Turn the other cheek,”
they simpered,
elevating empathy above life itself, a gospel that made virtue of surrender, a hymn to the downtrodden that crowned weakness king. And lo, this is no mere belief—it is a shackle! Christianity stormed the West, not with the vigor of Thor’s hammer or Odin’s spear, but with the whimper of a martyr’s plea, forcing our forebears to kneel before a false god of guilt. By robbing children, ridiculing, raping or murdering anyone who would reject to be ruled by their rotten religion. If Gods are the highest principles of your life, theirs is the God of the Guilty.
Empathy, once a thread in the tapestry of survival, was twisted into a noose, a blind dogma demanding death—of self, of kin, of strength— for the sake of the unworthy, the stranger, the parasite. Thus began the infection: a creed that prized the suffering of others above the thriving of one’s own blood, a moral rot that declared life’s purpose not to live, but to sacrifice your life for the faceless masses.
The Psychology of the Plague
Why, ye ask, did this take root? Plunge with me into the darkened depths of their dogma! Man, in his herd-heart, craves belonging, a signal to the tribe that he is “good,” and so he clings to doctrines—any doctrines— like driftwood in a storm. Christianity weaponized this primal urge, offering a banner of false virtue:
“Feel the pain of all, and ye shall be holy!”
Thus the weak found solace in their weakness,
the strong were shamed into silence,
and the flock marched blindly,
chanting psalms of pity to prove their worth.
The sickness of ideologies—all ideologies—is born of the same herd-mind:
to craft nonsense rules,
to demand blind obedience,
to exalt the group’s applause,
against all collective common sense.
"Virtue signaling", they call it now, but its roots lie in Christianity, where the masses learned to grovel, to weep for the leper while their own homes burned. Psychologically, it is cowardice clad as nobility— a refusal to face life’s harsh truths, a flight into the fantasy that endless empathy heals all wounds. Yet hear me: pity begets only more suffering, a spiral of anguish that drowns the giver and the taker alike!
The Void and Its Bastard Heirs
And so, Christianity carved a void in the West’s heart, a gaping wound where once stood pride, purpose, and power. For centuries it ruled, its priests and kings chaining our spirit to the altar of self-denial, until the Enlightenment cracked its shell— yet the shell was empty, and into that void slithered its heirs:
Socialism (Christianity 2.0)
&
Wokism (Christianity 3.0)
These are not new creeds, but echoes of the same death cult, dressed in secular robes yet chanting the same dirge of suicidal empathy!
Witness socialism, born of the Christian impulse to “feed the poor,”
now a leviathan devouring the fruits of the strong to cradle the weak in endless dependence.
See its religious fervor:
the state is god,
equity as gospel,
redistribution as sacrament
all rooted in the same blind pity that spares the lame lamb while the wolf starves.
Then behold wokism, the latest spawn of this lineage,
a cult of perpetual victimhood, where every sinner must kneel before the altar of the “oppressed,” where empathy for the Other—however contrived—trumps reason, beauty, and survival itself.
Its priests shriek of “justice,” yet their justice is but pity’s mask, a blade turned inward to gut the West’s last vigor.
These three—Christianity, socialism, wokism—are one and the same, a trinity of autodestruction united by their core: false empathy as the highest good. Their similarities all stink the same:
All demand submission to a higher cause.
All fetishize suffering as sacred.
All scorn the self for the sake of the collective.
Christianity killed God for Power,
socialism starves society,
wokism puts the masses to sleep—
yet the outcome is identical:
a culture that loathes its own existence,
a people trained to weep for strangers
while their own bloodlines fade.
Examples of the Rot
Christianity burned the libraries of antiquity, razed the temples of our gods, and slaughtered millions in crusades and witch-hunts, all under the banner of “saving souls”... with swords.
Socialism, in its turn, starved millions in the gulags and famines of the 20th century—think of Stalin’s purges, Mao’s Great Leap, where empathy for “the people” justified mountains of corpses.
Wokism now follows suit, tearing down statues of our ancestors, censoring truth for fragile feelings, and flooding our lands with invaders, all in the name of “compassion” that chokes our future.
Each act, cloaked as mercy, drives the West closer to its grave— proof that their suicidal empathy is a lie, a Trojan horse for self-annihilation.
The Pagan Alternative
Yet lo, there is a path unshackled by this plague! Turn ye back to the ways of our ancestors, the pagans who danced beneath the sun and stars, who knew life’s pulse in the forest’s breath and the river’s roar.
They did not grovel before a god of guilt, nor waste their strength on pity’s endless maw. Their gods were the good forces of life—sky’s thunder and rain, earth’s gifts from fertile soil, wind’s who whisper wisdom, a sun that shines benevolently— and their lives were forged by priorities that mattered: family, beauty, strength and joy, forming the strongest bonds for their survival. Be like them! Cast off the doctrine that bids ye bleed for all, and reclaim the wisdom of the hearth:
guard thy kin, for they are thy legacy
cherish beauty, for it is the earth’s song
value life, for it is the cosmos’ gift
not a burden to be shed for the unworthy
The pagans built no empires of pity, but tribes of strength, where empathy served the well-known individual: family and friends, maybe a guest, but never an unknown mass of forigners or strangers. Their myths sang of heroes, not martyrs— of Beowulf’s valor, not Christ’s cross; of Freyja’s love, not Mary’s tears.
A New Awakening
Thus I, Hadugato, thunder unto ye, heirs of a broken West: Suicidal empathy is your doom, a Christian seed that bloomed into socialism and wokism, a death cult masquerading as virtue. Yet this is no lamentation—it is a war cry! For the blood of your pagan forebears surges still within ye, a torrent of untamed fire that once forged the true leaps of Western glory. We must return to the source, the pure pagan well, undefiled by the poisons of the unholy trinity—Christianity, socialism, wokism—that have fouled our waters and made us sick. These toxic ideologies have tainted the springs of our culture, seeping their venom into every sip, claiming their poison is medicine while we waste away.
No more!
We shall not linger, filtering dregs through sediment, waiting decades for nature to cleanse what they have corrupted. We shall not let these death cults triumph, rewriting history to crown their toxins as cures. Nay—we must rip them out, root and stem, and cast them into the fire, purging the wells entirely to start anew, purified, healed, strong, and whole once more.
Look ye to the Renaissance, that radiant dawn when the West clawed free from the Christian mire and drank deep from the pure pagan well! From its clear waters rose titans—Michelangelo, sculpting the marble David not as a meek shepherd but as a Herculean warrior, body taut with pagan vigor; Leonardo, mapping the cosmos and the sinews of man with the curiosity of a Thales or Archimedes; Machiavelli, wielding the unapologetic realism of a pagan chieftain to chart the raw truths of power.
These were no groveling martyrs—they were giants who seized the Muses’ flame, who revered beauty as Pindar did, who chased knowledge as Pythagoras dared, who honored the deeds of their kin as Beowulf’s saga demanded. The Renaissance was not just a triumph against Christianity —it was a pagan rebirth, a rejection of pity’s chains for the forge of creation, where virtue meant strength, excellence, and loyalty to one’s own, not subservience to the unworthy.
These pagan virtues—courage, honor, beauty, kinship—propelled us beyond the stars, while the cross and its bastard kin bid us kneel in the dirt. Where Christianity wept for the leper, paganism exalted the hero; where socialism levels all to mediocrity, paganism crowned the exceptional; where wokism bans truth for fragile lies, paganism spoke the world as it is. And lo, these virtues endure! They pulse in the marvels we built, the inventions we once more create, not for guilt but for grandeur, in the laws we carved not for pity but for order, in the art we wrought not to grovel but to defy the void instead of filling it with more emptiness. They call us still—to shield our hearths, to craft anew, to stand as oaks against the storm.
Yet behold the unholy trinity’s sin: this toxic twisting of all truths, where any values are branded sin, where good is called evil, where the natural is forbidden and the deadly exalted! Christianity damned our pride as arrogance, socialism our striving as greed, wokism our heritage as hate—each accusing us, their opposition, of the very rot they sow. They ban the warrior’s blade yet wield their own; they decry our strength yet crush dissent; they preach compassion yet drown us in decay. Their empathy is a lie, a shroud for cowardice,a dagger aimed inward at life itself—promoting the weak, the broken, the unnatural, while condemning the hale, the whole, the thriving. This is their creed:
to invert the world,
to forbid what is just,
to silence what is true,
to deflect their guilt onto us,
the unbowed
while their poisoned wells choke our spirit.
Thus, I summon ye to a new Renaissance—a roaring rejection of this plague! We need a real cultural shift, a return to the pure source where the best ideas rise to the top in fresh, clear water, not drown in the murky, muddy sludge of their making. Do the opposite of their edicts, for in defiance lies salvation. Where they bid ye pity the parasite, honor thy kin as the pagans did, for they are thy blood and thy future. Where they demand ye shun beauty for drab equality, chase the sublime as Phidias sculpted, for it is the soul’s fire. Where they forbid strength for fear of offense, wield it as Thor’s hammer, for it guards what is sacred. Where they silence truth for their fragile dogmas, shout it as Socrates dared, for it is the bedrock of all worth. This is the pagan way—to live, to build, to fight, to revel in the deeds of thy ancestors, not to wither in shame before their ghosts.
Awaken, ye sons and daughters of the West! Spit upon the cross, the sickle, the rainbow shroud—cast down this trinity of decay that twists virtue into vice. Smash their poisoned wells and dig anew from the earth’s pure depths, forging the living myth of thy people, rooted in the river’s rush and the sky’s roar, where greatness is no sin but a birthright. Let the pagan flame blaze once more—a beacon against the dark, a thunderclap to rouse the slumbering. For in this alone lies our triumph: not in the meek surrender of a dying age, but in the fierce, unbreakable will to be, to become, to stand as reborn gods among the ruins of their temples of degeneracy, one with the forces that birthed this world. So swear it, by the bones of thy forebears, and let the new Renaissance begin!
Hadugato, 01.03.25