Memorandum of Mental Assassination
⚒️ A Rant Against the Conehead Myths
They think the circle protects them. They paint the snake devouring its tail and call it wisdom: the eternal cycle, the rise and fall, the inevitability of rebirth. But the truth is uglier. The Ouroboros isn’t a guardian — it’s a noose. It isn’t eternity — it’s entropy dressed in mystical robes. What they worship is not renewal, but rot. They mistake collapse for destiny because they’ve never stared extinction in the face.
They believe in the bloodline. That somehow, through sheer breeding, genius and superiority travel unbroken down the generations like a river of divinity. But blood is not destiny. A soul cannot be inherited. History spits in their face: Peter the Great butchered his own son, not because the son was a traitor to Russia, but because he was loyal to Russia in a way Peter despised. Father and son, same “tree,” opposite fruit. One obsessed with Europe, one rooted in the native soil. If blood were destiny, the son would have mirrored the father. Instead, he became his enemy. The apple rolled far, hit a stone, and rotted.
And still they cling to their myth. They interbreed, thinking they are distilling genius, when in truth they are bottling madness. Closed systems decay. The Habsburgs proved it with their twisted jaws, their fragile minds, their decline into weakness. Entropy doesn’t negotiate. What is pure today is brittle tomorrow. What they call “refinement” is just the narrowing of possibility until nothing remains but mediocrity in velvet robes.
Their nationalism is false. They shout of people and nation, but what they serve is dynasty alone. They cloak themselves in flags to hide the fact that their true allegiance is to their own blood. The people are scenery, the land a stage, the nation a prop. Beneath every patriotic speech is the gnawing truth: the empire is not for the people — the empire is for themselves.
The cycle they worship is a coward’s refuge. Every collapse excused as the wheel turning. Every failure shrugged off as destiny’s rhythm. They think this frees them from vigilance, from responsibility, from the hard work of maintaining what was built. But the wheel is not eternal. It is not a perfect circle. It is a spiral, and entropy pulls it downward. Each reset weaker, dumber, more hollow than the last. One day, the cycle will not reset. One day the snake will finish eating its tail, and there will be nothing left but dust.
So let us call their truths what they are: lies wrapped in symbols. The Ouroboros is not power, it is confession. A bloodline is not superiority, it is a fading photocopy passed from one set of cold hands to the next. Collapse is not noble; it is rot ritualized. And their superiority is nothing but a story they tell themselves as the walls crack around them.
⚒️ They speak of legacy, of dynasties carved in stone. But stone crumbles. Statues weather to faceless lumps. Blood dries, and names rot on the pages of history. What endures are not their lineages, but the wreckage they leave behind. Rome did not fall because its enemies were too strong; it fell because its emperors were too weak, too decadent, too busy painting themselves as gods while the foundations cracked beneath their sandals. A parade of coneheads draped in purple led the empire to ruin, each convinced that the cycle would renew Rome forever. Where is their cycle now? A ruin tourists gawk at for a few coins.
Every empire tells the same lie: that collapse is temporary. The Egyptians believed their dynasties eternal; the Mayans carved their cosmic calendars in stone. Both fell into dust and jungle. The elites who ruled them thought their rituals guaranteed renewal, but they were blind to the truth: extinction does not bargain. Once entropy consumes, there is no rebirth, only silence. The snake that eats itself eventually finishes the meal.
And still today, coneheads cling to this delusion. They mistake accident for superiority, inheritance for intelligence. They believe they are chosen because of their birth. But inheritance is not mastery. It is chance, and chance does not guarantee wisdom. A drunk inheriting a vineyard does not become a winemaker; he becomes a drunk with grapes. A fool born into gold is still a fool, only heavier.
They imagine themselves shepherds of nations, but they are parasites of nations. They suck the vitality of their people, hollowing out the very soil they claim to protect, until collapse comes — and then they call it destiny. Collapse is not destiny. Collapse is negligence disguised as inevitability. They do not govern; they consume.
Their worship of the cycle is worship of failure. It is an excuse to surrender vigilance, to let entropy spread unchecked, to let the weakest rise until the structure caves in. They could choose vigilance. They could choose renewal not by collapse but by maintenance. But vigilance requires humility — the admission that collapse is not natural, that entropy can be fought if one pays attention. And humility is the one thing a conehead cannot stomach.
So they hollow themselves out. Each generation weaker, each heir further removed from reality. They lock themselves in bloodlines that shrink and twist. They mistake decay for destiny. They mistake their coffin for a throne.
The irony is that the people they look down on — the so-called common, the discarded, the outsiders — often carry more vitality than their entire dynasty. The street breeds innovation. The margins produce the soul. Genius is wild; it does not follow genealogies. Souls are not bred like horses, and the coneheads will never understand this. They think they are gardeners pruning a sacred tree, but in truth they are butchers carving their family line into a stump.
And here lies the final truth they cannot face: the cycle is not infinite. One collapse too many, one reset too far, and the spiral ends not in rebirth but in extinction. The Ouroboros does not save them; it betrays them. The snake that eats its tail cannot live forever — at some point, there is nothing left but the head swallowing itself into oblivion.
⚒️The coneheads think history is their inheritance. They think time bends for their families, that collapse is only a seasonal shedding, that they will always return because the cycle must always turn. But history has no such mercy. History is littered with dynasties that believed the same lie. Where are the Pharaohs? Where is the Holy Roman Empire? Where are the Caesars, who thought they were gods made flesh? Their marble is cracked, their crowns stolen, their bloodlines extinct or irrelevant. The wheel did not lift them again. It buried them.
They wear symbols of eternity — the snake, the circle, the ouroboros — but they misunderstand their own sigil. They see infinity where they should see death. The snake that eats itself is not immortal; it is desperate. It consumes itself until nothing remains. That is their true emblem: not wisdom, not power, not eternity, but the suicidal hunger of a system devouring its own foundations.
They pretend collapse is a plan. But collapse is only negligence. They call it destiny, yet it is simply cowardice — the refusal to be vigilant, the refusal to prune decay before it becomes rot, the refusal to face entropy with discipline. They cannot master entropy because they cannot master themselves.
They claim superiority through blood, but blood is not spirit. A line of kings can produce a madman. A line of emperors can produce a coward. A line of geniuses can produce a fool too weak to hold the sword he inherits. The soul is not passed through veins like wine through a pipe. Each soul is new, unpredictable, wild. Their myth of bloodline superiority is not just false; it is poison. It lulls them into arrogance until entropy swallows their whole line.
They think collapse is safe. That the fall always leads to rise. That another cycle will bring them back. But a spiral is not a circle. Each collapse grows weaker, each rise more hollow. The wheel spins until it no longer has the strength to turn. Then it stops. Forever. Extinction does not offer rebirth. The snake’s head finally swallows itself, and the line, the nation, the system, is gone.
This is the truth they cannot bear: their myths are not shields but daggers in their own hands. Their symbols are not wisdom but admissions of defeat. Their bloodlines are not chosen but accidents of chance, photocopies that fade with every generation. Their nationalism is false, their superiority hollow, their vigilance absent. They are not masters of history — they are its victims, too blind to see that the cycles they worship are chains dragging them toward the grave.
And so the memorandum closes with this: the conehead elite are not shepherds, not guardians, not chosen. They are hollow men worshipping entropy, mistaking their own decay for destiny. Their snake is not eternal. It is dying. It has always been dying. And when it finally consumes itself, there will be no cycle, no rebirth, no bloodline to save them. Only silence.
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