The chicken dinner was nice. My reclining seat is comfortable. The music on my headphones is pleasant. The heating is working fine. It’s a lovely laptop in front of me.
On the surface, information warfare is easy. There is none of the blood, mud, and guts of the WW1 trenches here. Nobody is screaming in pain, no bombs are exploding, no corpses are rotting.
Yet I feel that I am involved in one of the most gruesome and depraved conflicts in all of history. The essence of its cruelty is that everything is so close to “normal”, yet so far away from anything that ought to be normalised.
A tiny piercing of the human skin, and a few millilitres of liquid labelled with the brand of a reputable major pharmaceutical company — and universally endorsed by media and government. How bad can that be?
We already know the answer: horrific neurological injuries, destroyed immune systems, cardiovascular catastrophe, infertility, maiming, and death. And that’s before we begin to unravel the horrors of transhumanist technology: hijacking of consciousness, zombification of humans, and deletion of spirituality.
The essence of this genocidal war is a nightmarish scheme designed to break the strongest human onlooker. Our love for our family and friends is weaponised against us, as we are forced to endure watching them suicidally self-harm using gene therapy and nanotechnologies. Behind that is a barbaric system of mind control and social engineering instituted over the last century and more.
I only know how to speak from my heart; I can’t stand games like chess or bridge where I use my mind to outwit others. (At the most I am willing to use my intellect to “antiwit” the plotters and schemers, but without my heart feeling engaged, the pursuit of winning for its own sake is cold and uninteresting to me.) The predictable disaster meted out to those we care about is an agony in my core, and its endless deceit is emotionally exhausting to endure.
One of my daughters is “woke” and has turned against me. The other one is wavering; still engaged in relating, but only just. Their mother is caught up in the cult of death, her rationality still present, but her conscience seems lost. The only metric of morality left in operation is whether you conform enough that your reputation is unsullied by rebellion. No authoritative facts or appeals to ethics have the slightest effect.
An old friend has betrayed me and led my daughters down a dangerous path of submission to tyranny, usurping my position as a parent. My own parents have endorsed this institutionalised child abuse, and we barely communicate now as a result. My brother has stabbed himself with the serum of slavery, and I dare not inquire what’s happening to my nieces. A much-loved lover… jabbed too.
I know many of you face similar situations and profound sadness. The nature of unrestricted and unconventional warfare — those “silent weapons for quiet wars” — is in some ways more harrowing than mustard gas and nuclear weapons. The battlefield is not “over there” on foreign soils with young men being blown apart. It is small children right here being “exploded” in front of our eyes at a cellular level, and with the complicity of our most trusted institutions.
We know that for many a “wailing and gnashing” awakening is coming, and it won’t be pretty. We do not know how many will perish, what nature will throw at us, or what “special help” we have (the ambiguity is purposeful!). We watch and wait, and in the meantime many of us suffer in anticipation. There is a toll on us economically, socially, psychologically, physically, and spiritually from an all-enveloping conflict.
The superficial daily comfort denies us the “official” participation of a “proper” kinetic war by the metrics we have been offered in movies. Memetic war — waged in the mass media and via reprogramming biology — lacks the noise, bravado, and machinery of its explosive opposite. We are gaslit constantly and told there is no war, and that anyone who says there is must be a dangerous extremist or under-medicated madman.
The crux of this conflict is children. They aren’t just on the battlefield, they are the battlefield. This is what makes this the most horrific war in history, for no lower boundary of moral conduct seems to exist. Quite the opposite: the Satanic method demands revelry in the maximisation of sadism and transgression. There is the rape and sacrifice of infants, the trafficking in child sex slaves, and the theft of our genetic inheritance.
We will have to face up to many being orphaned, and perhaps the most tear-inducing will be the children of the indicted. Their parents may still be alive (if not executed for treason), but in remote military prisons for their own safety and security. These innocent children will be in a state of shock and limbo, unable to grieve properly, and tarnished by the crimes of their ancestors. Parenting skills for the traumatised are going to be in high demand.
It has been a trying time recently. I have been overstressed, overstretched, and overwhelmed. Years and years of voraciously ingesting data and sorting it to see patterns has left me with “autist fatigue”. Doing simple admin is getting hard, focusing on complex projects is beyond me, and all kinds of notional dues and duties have had to fall the side. Burnout is a thing, and I have to recognise my own finite capacity and capability limits.
I know that when I am censored it isn’t just an attack on my work. It is also an implicit threat against me as a person. So far I have been OK, and I assume that I have some kind of unseen cover or protection as a result of my forthrightness. I do what I can to maintain some basic operational security, and hope for the best. I refuse to cower in fear, and carry on my life regardless. I am hopeful for truth, justice, and prosperity; and realistic of the hardship to get there.
Somehow we all know that we cannot buckle or bend the knee; to have come so far and fallen now would be a tragic waste. If there is one thing that energises me to carry on in the darkest moments, it is the knowledge that I may be needed to help a child. No matter how difficult the present may feel, we can take solace in the possibility that someday young eyes may look up to us in gratitude for passing through this distressing experience.
We cannot let the children down.
No, we must not.