Алмаз Браев – Digital Ruler. The eternal Colosseum (страница 5)

That’s right. Human wisdom has maintained for centuries that the eyes are the mirror of the soul. And if a man’s facade bears the stamp of this eternal internal fracture and optical strabismus, then his entire philosophy is nothing more than an intellectual justification for decay. So hear this: no war between the French and the Germans can possibly happen today, by any old rule. I argued with artificial intelligence when I was drafting this chapter. Grok offered me a standard, soothing pacifier for the masses: claiming that NATO was never created against the USSR and communism, but rather as a pacifist project — “to prevent a war between Germany and France.” What breathtaking naivety! What a sterile, liberal lie for anyone who has ever peeked behind the curtains of the geopolitical theater. War is impossible not because the leaders in Brussels suddenly turned into pacifists or because humanism triumphed in Europe. It is impossible because they have physically run out of the primary fuel for war: people with a spine. Of course, not every single Frenchman or German looks at the world strictly through Sartre’s eyes. But those who represent and shape these two significant nations look at reality with that exact same squint. All of their conservative pillars have been burned away. Through centuries of revolutions, colonial expansions, and globalization, they have scattered their genes across the globe, mutating into rootless, cosmopolitan individualists. They grew up in the sterile greenhouse of over-protective parenting, entirely untouched by genuine, existential pain (they never knew real hunger or suffering, raised instead in comfortable, nuclear units). This is why they still run to psychoanalysts, obsessively picking at their own “inner stresses,” turning psychotherapy into a legalized narcotic that seamlessly blends with distracting sex and the cult of personal comfort. The supreme ideology of the West is psychoanalysis. When an entire generation is raised on psychoanalysis and hedonism, they do not die in trenches. Everyone cares only about themselves. It is precisely in the name of their precious “selves” that their elites today scream hysterically about the “Russian threat” and stoke military hysteria. This is the exact same technocratic technology as the hollow shouting of peripheral nationalists. These Western temporary workers feed the military budget not out of a fanatical belief in democracy, but to gamble the fate of the world on blind chance for one single goal: the golden parachute. They just need to sit out their terms, collect their millions from foundations, secure seats on corporate boards, and retire to their villas by Swiss lakes. Everything around them can burn to the ground, but they will sit there meditating and stroking their pampered bodies — slick, isn’t it?

And that is where the circle closes. On one side — the pampered Western elite sitting on golden parachutes, stripped of all roots, reduced to mere market plastic. On the other — loudmouthed provincial upstarts wielding archaic traditional values as a dirty battering ram for personal enrichment. Neither side has a single genuine pillar left beneath their feet. Personality has been replaced by simulacra, and these “individuals” scatter plastic wherever they go — they are the plastic of the RULER. That is why they become the perfect, unresisting raw material for the one who has already seized the vacant throne. For the one who comes to harvest the disillusioned masses once the old verticals have turned completely to dust. For the Digital Ruler. He sees everything because he looks straight into the core. Day after day, year after year, century after century, humanity changes its pillars. What looked sacred yesterday tomorrow turns into a naive adolescent delusion. To normal eyes, today is overflowing with traitors. But if you look through the crossed eyes of Sartre, betrayal is just a logical swap of outdated props. Every nation currently has its own pillars. And all the nations of the world are marching right into this market-driven squint, led by their cunning elites who whisper to them from above: “Today, akyns and ancient myths are trending… but we respect your cross-eyed confusion just as well.”

Chapter 8

Rough and Refined

So, broadly speaking, there are coarse nations, and then there are delicate nations of a fine-spun construction. Historically, coarse nations built empires; later, the souls of those imperial rulers grew refined, and after a time, the empires shattered into smaller “thoughts” — the kind native to delicate natures, never coarse ones. Among the most civilized factions, philosophers came to the fore — figures of lesser depth and cosmic scope than prophets. Prophets arose within empires, or rather at the friction points of vastly different cultures and worlds, primarily in the Eastern Mediterranean and the borderlands of Europe and Asia. To oversimplify the emergence of philosophers, they are merely the administrative clerks of thought. In general, among cultured communities, philosophers lead the way to fortify the collective and hand down the next set of pillars. In some cases, these communities fracture; people migrate, spreading the philosophers’ news, telling so-called savages or coarse communes that delicate worlds exist. The coarse communes remember these tales, and soon they too sprout delicate-looking leaders. But these aren’t truly delicate souls; they are merely mimics of delicacy. On the other hand, migrants scatter across the world bearing no tidings at all — they flee in the opposite direction in search of a better life. They run from the very bottom of those delicate communities. Thus, while they might seem coarse, they are neither coarse nor naive: they are cynical and calculating. If we connect the flight of these calculating migrants with the wanderers seeking greener pastures from delicate societies, we get the evolutionary genesis of the worship of global currency. Why do migrants from delicate lands still flee toward the optimal horizon?

To grasp this, understand that money is not merely a measure of value; it is the ultimate mass-production machine for first-place finishes. People flee primarily because all the nominally elite spaces in the old town square are already occupied: back in their small-town homeland, they are nobodies, stripped of any inheritance. The old square has long been partitioned by clans of Sadducees, Pharisees, barons, dukes, and counts. But on the new continent, all men are equal; nobody gives a damn where you crawled out from. Therefore, money becomes the sole metric of elite status — the currency of choice for all backward, coarse nations whose elites desperately mimic the cultured nations. Picture the podium of any sports competition: there are three honorary spots — the high golden step of first place, flanked by silver and bronze. This is the classical, conservative structure. No more than three athletes can possibly fit upon it. The monetary-currency podium, however, is entirely different. A million victors can squeeze onto the summit of honor all at once, only to tumble down the next moment, yielding their slots to new oligarch-champions. This is why all coarse communities and peripheral nations gravitate not merely toward delicate nations graced by philosophers, but above all toward the calculating American nation — the inventors of the golden migration and monetary-currency championism. Hence, the elites of coarse peripheral nations — where no philosophers exist, but authoritarianism is deeply revered, forming rigid systems built on unwritten traditional hierarchies and blind subordination — only look as though they are mimicking delicacy. They are hypocritical to the core. Beneath their public smiles, officialdom holds zero respect for any so-called “personality.” There is only the paralyzed terror of losing the administrative feed-trough, the fear of losing the post that grants a bureaucrat respect among kin and cronies because he “gets things done.” After all, the entire ruling upper crust of these regimes doesn’t just wear the invisible tailcoats of the delicate nation; they safely store all their stolen cash right there, in the vaults of those exact same calculating, delicate Westerners they pretend to despise.

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