You're A Slave
We live in a system that lets you scream, as long as it's in the wrong direction. Look at it like this. Globalization, as a technological process—not an ideological one—is inevitable under the current paradigm. We live under a paradigm of total integration. Not of cultures, but of systems. What’s being unified is not peoples or traditions, but supply chains, data flows, and control mechanisms. This is not a global community. It is a global apparatus. You are not being included. You are being processed. The machine needs to run. That’s the point. And as it runs, people are displaced, disoriented, and atomized. Discontent is rising. Of course it is. Because not a single major transformation in the modern West has occurred with democratic consent. Not desegregation. Not the shift from nation to market. Not the demographic reengineering of entire nations through mass immigration. None of it was voted on. None of it debated honestly. It was all imposed. And people notice. Maybe not all at once. But they feel it. So the question becomes: how do you contain this? How do you manage civilizational-scale resentment? The answer: you create the illusion of participation. The illusion of dissent. The illusion of choice. Kabuki. You give people platforms. Let them shout into the void. Let them rage. “You can make a difference—look, they’re eating cats in Ohio.” Give them Twitter, Boomerbook, podcasts, whatever. Let them feel heard. But what they’re really doing is venting inside a sandbox built by the system itself. Every grievance is observed, categorized, and routed back into controlled circuits. The rage becomes predictable. Manageable. Profitable. “We love our X ads, don’t we folks?” Meanwhile, power remains untouched. Say what you want about immigration? Sure. But say it here. Say it online. Not where it could shape real policy. Not where it could build lasting power. It feels political, but it never becomes politics. Speak freely, but never effectively. Want to question the sacred narratives? Fine. Talk about the JQ? Be my guest. But do it in a way that’s cartoonish, unthinking, easily dismissed. Rant like a drunk, and you’re left alone. Speak, and write like Dr. Kevin MacDonald. Be measured, cited, structural, and you’ll be silenced. “I’m back on X, but I post nothing of substance, or I’ll be removed again.” Want to bring up a certain Austrian corporal? Go for it, but do it cartoonishly. “Did you know he was a vegetarian?” “Did you know he was rejected from art school?” “Did you know he was a corporal in the German army?” Make jokes. Post memes. Drop a hot take. Pepe. Ten thousand likes. Dopamine floods in. The system smiles. You feel seen. Nothing changes. But try discussing, intelligently, why tariffs are only step one in a real strategy for American economic revitalization, and suddenly it’s crickets. Because tariffs alone won’t fix decades of deindustrialization. They are a defensive measure, not an offensive plan. A wall, not a blueprint. You need reshoring. Real reshoring, not just headlines. Incentives for domestic manufacturing. A tax code that rewards production over speculation. Infrastructure that supports internal supply chains. Strategic investment in energy, in logistics, in skilled labor. Reference Gottfried Fedor’s postwar thesis. Break down his monetary analysis. Trace the logic of his economic critique. That’s when you become dangerous. The regime doesn’t fear moderated dialogue. It feeds on noise. It promotes idiots. What it fears is clarity. It doesn’t mind “hate speech.” It fears coherent, systemic analysis that reveals the machinery behind the spectacle. It fears when people start naming names, following flows of capital, deconstructing the mythologies that hold the postwar order together. Yes, discontent would exist no matter the tools. But these tools, this digital architecture of permitted rage, redirect that discontent. From real-world resistance to aesthetic participation. From threat to entertainment. From revolt to ritual. This isn’t censorship. That’s too crude. This is curation. This is containment. And the beauty of it? You think you’re free while it’s happening. You are a slave. Well fed. Supremely confident in your cause, your opinion, your self-constructed non-identity. Still, a slave.
