There are many ways to balance and ratio humors between surge and regeneration. When you exercise, you tear muscle and tendon fibres so that they grow back stronger, and that loss is part of the excess of war to be replenished threw sustenance and respite—unless you have a lot of stress in your life, are always tensed up and don't know how to retract your body within the finer details of the day. I disagree with the notion that people need designated periods of time to decompress in the form of weekends and vacations. That only applies to those who cannot coordinate their operations to optimize between decision and dissent. Instead of having a goal in the back of their heads, maintaining war mode until its end, they register each minor aspect as its own expedition, upon the completion of which the Pavlovian expectation of respite is constantly strained to engage continuous nodes of burden. How are you meant to cope, they wonder, with constant work? You get the dopamine hit when you know what you have completed has weight, which is why you don't set your checkpoints between each little chore. The truth is, doing so is a racket to justify exhaustion and gives-me-dat from social peers. You could lock in for the week and not stress about having to go from a day job to cleaning your house; it's not hard, contrary to those who use their complaints to garner sympathy. The only wrenching transition is between types of psychosocial muscle memory, but they're still both forms of work—of course getting into the flow of something is impossible with any momentum towards it interrupted by contemplation between decision, or lack for foresight for where the struggle ends. Without that tether towards the gratification of dopamine and the promise of decompression, which dopamine serves as a aphrodisiac for, it's hard not to be constantly disoriented in a state which bears from the human impulse to find meaning, only an immediate idea that their toil is pointless. If subjects without agency ponder on this sense, they either refuse to work or kill themselves after extending the minor conclusion as far as life itself. Both, from proles to people who have PHDs, and especially people who have PHDs, are equally stupid and slave-like at a core level in their lack of agency. This very state of perpetual tension is the body language of those who lack agency, like Anglos per over a thousand years of perfected conditioning which produced the most up-tight, obnoxious race of people imaginable.
They ask, what is the point of working if it's followed by more work, when they're not meant to be in a perpetual state of expecting a crash out to decompress anyway. The war-like call of men is duty towards the standard of the way. They don't understand duty. The creed of men is to flock to the standard of the way, endless duty to your personal dominion and generative craft/mission. This resolve is felt through subconscious memory of THE LORE. Once you understand this, you'll find that you don't need much respite at all, as confidence is secured by right, pure and irresistible. Even when warn down, the body's fall-back support, its investment is in eternity, endless ethereal space which cannot be degraded by pressure. Otherwise, respite is used frugally along the war trail for regeneration and pacing, burned like peat within the fine details of the campaign. Men, once they lock in, or regain the ability to lock in, can persist on the war trail for months without complaints of toil, for what is the substance of toil other than identical enemy throughout the bloody path of the mission. Any respite which you can afford in the hours of the night can be put towards calmly formulating ideas of structure for the day ahead, after which very little crash out time is required to feel replenished, all the while in a state of optimized nocturnal creativity, which you only need about an hour and a half of to make something of anyway.
The reason women and children were let off the Titanic first is because boys only become men when they learn agency, accountability, responsibility and freedom to think for themselves. Until then, they are in the same camp as women, who don't need to develop these traits. Boys can learn agency, and women can be taught agency to a degree by men, which I'm an advocate of, as I think women deserve dignity—this is agency within maintenance of cohesion of the family, and general character, not some feminist notion promoting women to walk the entrepreneurial path of men, which only ever results in prostitution or getting burnt out in the workforce while trying to juggle child rearing, or worse, dispense with procreation, severing any genetic future, to amount as a momentary worker ant, while the dead end of their lineage. Agency should be rubbed off from men to women towards their own duty, as it applies to championing femininity with charisma...
...a charisma which many men lack as much as, if not more so than women, who themselves have been degraded and genocided by a culture dictated by gay guys as to what women may have as reference.
Boys learn agency, and subsequently character, some sooner than others if at all, which is why you can have those, often Brits, who are adult but act and talk as they did when they were children; while at the same time, others who have the same whit, charisma, capacity for life, and mental/verbal coherence which they had as kids. A good showcase for the latter is Charles Bukowski's semi autobiography, Ham on Rye, which inscribes a glimpse into what is the true American childhood. Some develop this as soon as they start noticing the world around them with sharp pattern recognition; others are devoid of creativity, never developing past their child-state, those who's instinct it is to look towards a parent figure for guidance and orders. In this we have Nietzsche's last man, an intimidating showcase of what it is to be a slave.
Adhere to the LORE. Move under the sign of the moon and the lightning bolt; one humor regenerates the body and mind, the other proves the right to its existence through sweat and damage, the lordship of men.
We antinormies have a right to be proud for in our blood runs the adrenaline of many great campaigns exacted for self-preservation. Here in the whirlpool of ideas, thought parasites and subversion, the will to power bore down from our souls the fighting spirit through which Aeru-Hadra is channeled, displayed to such fell intent upon the spaces of safe society thralls, aye, and of other "dissidents" too, till the normies thought that they were ghosts of the Axis powers themselves, had come. Here too, at fighting age, they found the MISC, of who's warlike fury had swept the Manosphere like a living flame, till the dying soys held that in their veins run the blood of those old heathens who, expelled from Britain, had mated with the Aryans in the new world. Fools, fools what heathen or what Chad was ever so great as Zyzz, who's pledge to man is our Modus Operandi? Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race, that we were proud, that when the liberal, the tranny, the coomer, the Groyper and the weeb poured their thousands upon our frontiers we drove them back? Is it strange that when Trump and his campaign swept through the political sphere he found us here when he reached the Internet? That the 2016 election was completed there? And when the MAGA flood fled through administration, the antinormies were claimed as kindred by the victorious conservicucks, and to us for years was trusted the guarding of the frontier of the libtard-land, aye, and more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for as the Libertardians say, "fuck around and find out". Who more gladly than we throughout the psychologies received the bloody sword, or at its warlike call flocked quicker to the standard of the POTUS. When was redeemed that great shame of our nation, the shame of Zionism, when the flags of the conservative and the white man went down under the Star of Remphan, who was it but one of my own race, who as Hyde crossed the cancelation bridge and beat the cuck on his own ground? This was a Hadrinian indeed. Woe was it that his own unworthy adversary, when he had fallen, sold his fanbase to the lib, and brought the shame of matriarchy upon them. Was it not this Hadrinian, indeed, who in a later age inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and again, brought his forces across the great bridge into normie-land, and who, when he was beaten back, came again and again and again and again, though he had come alone from the bloody field where his socials were cancelling him, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph. They say we thought only of ourselves—what good are normalfags without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and a heart to conduct it? Again, when after the meme wars of the 2020s, we threw off the Tatian yoke, we of the Hadrinian blood were amongst their reactionaries, for our spirit would not brook that we were not based. The antinormies and the Hadrinians, their hearts, blood, their brains and their swords can boast a record that mushroom growths like the Tater Tots and the Groypers can never reach. The war like days are eternal. Blood is too precious a thing to surrender, and the violence of our will is as a knee jerk reaction.
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