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Sietze Bosman ruminates on the transformation of Europe’s cultural landscape, where the eerie essence of Halloween has become an everyday reality, overshadowing the once celebrated beauty and values of Western society.

“I am I plus my surroundings, and if I do not preserve the latter, I do not preserve myself.”

— José Ortega y Gasset

The 30th of October 2023: the tower bell reverberates through the dark, looming night. The slow autumn drizzle has soaked the streets of the city. The autumnal fragrance of decay coalesces with the stench of excrement and urine into a sickening fog. The great monumental facades and regal columns of our glorious cultural past stand solemn as witnesses to the horrors in the streets. They now embody a melancholic irony. They rise up to the skies as monuments of aspiration and greatness, yet now have their foundations in pungent filth.

For centuries, the midnight chime of the tower bell on the 30th of October was the rhythmic sign of the advent of Halloween, or All Hallows’ Eve — a festival that was infused with the mysterious, the macabre, and the horrid. There is now nothing that makes the 31st distinct from all other days of the year, as all days have now been infused with the horrid and the macabre.

The suffocating fog of decay has transcended the limitations of a single October date. It has broadened its horizon and inundated all of our modern times. There is now not a secluded square, ally, or park left, where not the vicious talons of modernity come to pierce the eyes. Everywhere the ugly, the filthy, and the vulgar shuffle about. Somewhere, in the ephemeral memories of the past, aesthetics have been snuffed out. Like an ugly frog gulps down a butterfly, so has the torrent of time devoured the European butterfly and torn asunder the towering standards of beauty our people used to uphold.

Whole streets are now, like in a Victorian horror story, in a creepy way adorned by hordes of fentanyl zombies. The scenes are eerily similar to depictions of Vlad the Impaler’s handiwork, but instead of corpses stuck on stakes, half-dead creatures impaled by time. Stuck in their abysmal stupor, they stand dead-eyed and soulless as monuments of the unending Halloween. Ragged and filthy, they corporeally attest to the soul of the times. Their incoherent mutters as silent macabre prayers carry through the horrid night.

The thousand-yard gaze of veterans and fentanyl zombies alike is now even becoming fashionable among those with some sanity left, as a coping mechanism. For every day, the commute to their jobs in the city, which has now become like a tourist trip through Dantes’s nine circles of hell, has become an apocalyptic experience of traversing masturbating men, loud ghetto music, racial violence, outlandish tapestries of excrement and vomit, and many more such modern delights.

Shall we rise and choose life and the end of the perpetual Halloween?

The normal is now like an architectural masterpiece turned crackhouse. The last vestiges of the culturally beautiful West stand as empty husks, devoured from within. The slime of modernity is oozing out of every crack and crevice of our surroundings, corrupting everything.

Trick-or-treating has thus become nonsensical when the degenerate, vulgar, and horrible already litter our every public space. What point is there in wearing a costume when drag queens are telling stories to children? Why try to scare people with creepy masks when there are those running around that have monstrified themselves with tattoos, black contact lenses, surgical implants, and split tongues? Why act freakish when society has become one giant freakshow?

Those with some sanity left have grown callus on the areas of the brain that normally would have been shocked by the dismal state of society. Nowadays, if you want true shock value, all you need to do is start a white traditional family. The sight of a white straight male, happily married to a white straight woman, who have beautiful white kids together, is to the modernist worthy of the most rabid response possible. The minions of perpetual Halloween cannot stand happy white families, as they are impervious to their dissolute madness. The white nuclear family symbolizes all that the rapacious hordes of mentally defective perpetual Halloweeners have come to detest.

The very continuation of the lifeblood of the white people has become an act of rebellion in itself. The white race has thrown all it could at nature, time, and war. It managed to create unspeakable monuments of human achievement. Soaring standards of aesthetics, superb science, and priceless works of art. The perpetual Halloween is poised to smear all of it with its vile cultural stool. For the armies of talentless, unambitious, spoiled, decrepit, vulgar, ogrish masses cannot meet any standard nameworthy; they insist on destroying all standards.

All beauty, truth, and goodness must die. And the frenzied mobs of malicious mutants will gladly sink the dagger of decay into the heart of our people’s culture themselves. So the question that we should really ask is this: shall the peoples of Europe end the Tiamat of nothingness on a future 31st of October? Shall we draw our spiritual swords and cut off the seven heads of the menacing beast? Shall we rise and choose life and the end of the perpetual Halloween? Or fall victim to its venomous fangs, so the poison will slowly turn our innards to mush?

The chime of the October bell has never carried with it such a poignant overtone of impending doom. The very atmosphere reverberates with waves of immediacy and harmonics of demise. A melancholic dirge for the beauty lost and honor fallen. The heavy October clouds are gathering and soon no light shall fall upon the white lands. Yet above the clouds, there is, ever so faintly, to be heard the bright song of the clarion. Our ancestors call upon us to regain our path to our destiny. To tread the arduous paths our forebears trod. And from fire and brimstone, rise and raise the flag of victory! Even when facing certain death, the honor of our forebears befalls us and we should be judged on account of our capacity for heroism by our descendants. I, for one, hope to be remembered in song and book. Rise, peoples of Europe! For honor and destiny!

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Racial Civil War
Sietze Bosman

Sietze Bosman, 42, resides in the Netherlands. Having served in the military for four years, he transitioned into a career in construction and currently holds a position with an organisation specialising in affordable housing. Alongside his professional pursuits, Sietze is an avid writer of stories and poetry in his native language, Frisian, rather than Dutch, reflecting his deep connection to his Frisian heritage. He is dedicated to formulating a philosophical framework that unites the Frisian community in resistance against modernity. Sietze identifies himself as a philosopher, family man, and worshipper of Creation, with his philosophy centring around the natural order and the responsibility it entails. Motivated by this duty, he endeavours to bring his people together, even in the face of resistance.

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