You Are Not Equal.

I don't know who told you you were special, but you're not. You exist on a planet filled with swarm upon swarm of human life- breathing, breeding, writhing, warring, building, spreading, rotting. You are a faceless drone in a sea of of faceless drones, so much like the others that your lifestyle will become nearly indistinguishable from millions of human beings. You will be sold the same products, the same music, the same belief of sameness that permeates this entire massive construct.

Genetics only count for excuses. You can use them to explain why you are a shuffling puddle of adipose tissue, or why you prefer the gender pronoun "xher," but not to set yourself apart in the realms of ancestry or culture- depending on what that ancestry is. YOU ARE ONE with the circle of flabby, scabrous hands that surround this rock in a great ring of mediocrity and self-pity, your corpulent bodies oozing putresecence like a field of cancerous meat that goes on forever.
Except, that's not right is it? That's the nightmare of the modern world. That's what they're looking to sell you. They had your opinions and desires and illusions and distractions pre-packaged and ready to be forced down your gullet from the moment you were born. You are not a human being to them, you are a consumer. A living, breathing statistic of consumption, reproduction, expiration, disintegration. The second you scream your first bloody breath, they are filling your life with commercials, ideas, PRODUCT. Your little eyes are already taking in scenes of life "as it should be" on the great flickering prophet of our age. The television and computer screen have more influence on anyone living in this world than the words of heroes, or the written page.

Your lot is not to consume the poisoned grain of modernity, crammed into your feedlot with the rest of those waiting to be slaughtered, hooked up to the Great Machine, your lifeforce feeding it, sustaining it, making it stronger and larger, as you become weaker- a pale, fat, powerless thing. A twisting maggot, its life as futile and meaningless as a worm blindly digging at a bed of iron.
To escape, you must cut away from the feeding tubes. You must become what they fear most:
A MAN WHO DREAMS HIS OWN DREAM. When you awaken from the opiated slumber of Empire, and see with your own eyes what this harlotrous world has done to you, has made of you, you will be overcome for a time with a great wrath. This wrath will feed your becoming, as through the disciplines of Iron and Blood, you forge your mind and body into something your ancestors would recognize as truly human, in all the glory that can imply.

When this wrath flickers, or gutters, that is when the dream-weavers attempt to sink their drugged hooks back into your flesh. When the journey is too arduous, too difficult. When the end of the road can not be seen, or imagined, and weariness overtakes your limbs. "Just for a moment," you whisper to yourself through cracked, bloody lips, as you lower yourself to the ground for a few fleeting minutes of rest from the Path With No End. Your eyes begin to close, and the hooks feel so comforting. As the sweet toxin of Empire once again flows into your veins, and all the pretty images flood your mind. A heady mixture of mediation, plastic people fucking, laughing, dancing and sporting, all JUST FOR YOU.
This is the easy way, and to be awake is so hard. So lonely, and the reward is so intangible.

This "momentary rest" will break you. It will destroy your resolve, as you relapse into the addictions of comfort, laziness, chemical pleasure, illusion after illusion, and finally, an ignoble death. What our ancestors called a "straw death," you will dribble out your last breath hooked up to a thousand machines and no one will care, because you were nothing, and you died for nothing. Another diseased consumer closing their eyes for the last time in the great industrial farm of this planet Earth, a farm in which you are the cattle, and they, the Feeders, the Bleeders, the Eaters. Your corpse will be fed to the rest, and they will think "how special he was," for one tiny second, and then your name will be erased from this reality forever.

We cannot give up. We cannot lose hope. We cannot lose heart.

The fight is ongoing, it is brutal, it is continuous, and it is fought within. We are the only casualty of this war, and we cannot afford to lose. There are others fighting as well- and we must find them. We must add our strength to theirs, or be obliterated and forgotten. We must raise not a thousand banners, but one. One awful black flag that signifies our willingness to awaken, to remain awake, and to fight to our last breath for our true freedom

This banner will be seen and it will be reviled. It will be misused by pretenders, and it will be clawed down by those who hate us, because the diseased will always look to infect those who are free of infection. None of this matters, and we cannot allow them to take our banners down. The flag signifies our willingness to clan together, in an age where that very action is dangerous- we must not fear. Our hearts must be pure. Our limbs must be strong. Our actions must match our words, and this is the inner mantra of OPERATION WEREWOLF:

We must become warrior poets, outlaw philosophers, inspired berserks- we cannot be strong only in mind, or only in body. We cannot be stuck preaching with no practice. Our detractors must see an impenetrable wall of power, a shield wall of Courage, Honor, Strength, Mastery that nothing can destroy.

Operation Werewolf is Iron and Blood. Our blood must be clean, not filled with the toxins of modernity. Our blood must be hot with righteous wrath, and the exertion of physical training. We do this with a will of iron, we lift the iron, we have iron in our hearts. Our comrades make us stronger, they do not accept weakness in us, nor we in them, and this is how we prevail. We are merciless with one another, knowing that we cannot abide weak brothers and sisters, and we refuse to be the weakened link in the chain.
Our conquest will settle for nothing less than total war, and total victory

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