The world hums with an almost tender insistence. It deftly keeps you occupied – delicately it distracts you from the war for your soul. You are kept perpetually busy, so that you might never pause long enough to recall the things that have been in our blood since before we had words to describe them. Not a moment given for reflection. We cannot spend any serious amount of time thinking about who we are, what we are – no. You need to add to the market, you need to be made sterile – we all need to be totally atomized, removed from each other and ourselves. Feminism primarily is a device that teaches man the melancholy of domestic ritual. The cherubim have shrugged off the ‘antique trinket’ of grace and flung it into the dust. It is a solvent, removing all differences until, at last, both men and women are interchangeable and anemic. The marxist mechanism that renders women “man‑like” proceeds, first, by transmogrifying man into a neurotic jew – his chief concerns are personal economics and his neat fit into a foreign society. Liberalism trims away the self for the convenience of others and dubs the result “order”. Progressivist agitators advise capable women to sever nascent life – the future, in the name of “empowerment”. Their fashionable rhetoric substitutes all ceremony for deed – it wholly rejects the real currencies of duty, responsibility, and sacrifice. It is a ceaseless drama – the restless inclination towards inversion – women’s desire to usurp men, while never succeeding. It is fighting against an ever-present gravity, only made opaque by modernity’s rose-tinted lenses. Egalitarianism is to run contrary to everything we are. This doesn’t stop women from trying. In fleeing one form of authority, one seldom escapes authority itself. She may reject her husband’s or father’s leadership, but she will always end up submitting to a man – maybe a less intimate sovereign; her boss, a suitor, the state, the invisible hand arranging tastes and trends. She trades a man, committed to her welfare, for the illusion of emancipation – a subtler submission. It is a blind pursuit of unintelligible “happiness”. Every time a society has tried it, the social fabric frays into curious shapes. Women get along so well with children because in many ways, they never grow up themselves. Where once societies contrived their customs and prohibitions to tutor our errant nature, modernity, with its tender perversity, seems devoted to indulging every whim — every vice, were we flowers being quietly, yet firmly, deracinated. Old childless women hide their appalling abasement and preach how great their lives are. It is no different than women telling their obese, ugly friend that “you’re beautiful”. They are like homosexuals in this way – relying upon alternative, oft‑compromised means of continuation. “Continuation”, in this context, is their adamant desire for rampant, unchecked perversity – notably, without competition. We are all left wondering why we are so off-balance. “Is it my shoes – my health?” “No, it’s an earthquake.”