If only you knew how much you sucked.

You speak as if pain alone is real. This is straight out of the most juvenile reading of Buddhism, filtered through late-night message boards. Dukkha is diagnostic, not devotional. Suffering is named so that it can be escaped, disciplined, or sublimated. To kneel before it is not profundity. It is laziness dressed as metaphysics. Your rhetoric circles salvation and redemption the way an Xbox Series X circles a lost console generation. Loud fanfare, impressive specs, no exclusives, no outcome. You want the eschatological payoff without covenant, the absolution without the law. Augustine would have recognized this immediately. So would Kierkegaard, who reserved his sharpest contempt for those who luxuriate in despair while insisting they are simply being honest. And honesty, here, looks suspiciously like stasis. Always stasis. The man who cannot sit still, you say. But you sit very still indeed. Bald, sexless, fixed in posture. All motion declared illusory so you never have to move. Heraclitus is inverted. The river is denied so the stone may feel wise. Even your television prophets betray you. Rust Cohle’s long night ends not in annihilation but in admission. The light gains ground. Not because it is metaphysically guaranteed, but because orientation matters. The refusal to orient is itself a choice, and not a noble one, champ. What you offer is not radical negation. It is the comfort of refusal. A weighted blanket stitched from borrowed pessimisms, pulled tight to hide the fact that you have lost more than hair and a console war. You have lost the nerve to build, to bind, to affirm anything that might answer back.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5824234&forum_id=2"#49605191)

You don’t refuse to listen because this is nonsense.

You refuse because something here demands nerve, ambition, exposure.

And that’s already gone. Along with the hair.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5824234&forum_id=2"#49605208)