There come points where I regret starting a YouTube channel. A fact of outward expression — nay, its necessity — requires a vessel within which it is transported from one soul to another in as efficient and clear a capacity as possible. Mingling myself with currents of a surface-level nature often befuddles my sense of direction; a thousand forces pull me at once, and retaining one’s balance and forthrightness becomes a challenge. And not a challenge of the triumphal sort, rather a burden and an annoyance.
I have come, awfully, to dislike a vast quantity of people — none persons — for non-reasons. Barely a handful of my subscribers on YouTube, for example, genuinely have any care for me. For them, my channel is just another outlet for semi-illiberal ideology which serves only to re-inforce their opinions on Leftists and other non-Europeans. Out of the one-thousand and seven hundred or so people at the present, I estimate that about one hundred and fifty — at maximum — posses any genuine care for my wellbeing. The rest — unless I am being too pessimistic — want merely to be spoonfed opinions. This leads to accusations of me being “pompous” or “pretentious” by people who have no actual care for actually correcting that alleged flaw.
The best example of this was recently, when via public poll, I asked people what changes they want to see from the channel. Twelve percent answered that I should stop being a “pompous prick,” and just get on with making “engaging, relatable, high-quality content.” Not one of this twelve percent actually cares how I behave. How do I know that? Because I have been not once contacted privately about such accusations — not once in two years has anyone said to me in private that I am pretentious, or anything alike. Only anonymous internet waifs level criticisms like that towards me, not persons with names and faces. I have been criticised by my friends — and all of it is worthwhile and valuable, and I thank those near to me for caring about me enough to wish my behaviour to be of a high quality, as it indeed ought to be — so it is not as if I am some paragon of cleanliness. But this particular group of people who are content to criticise me behind the veneer of a poll have no such honesty nor integrity. They have no desire to genuinely effect change upon me, nor I upon them. They are happy to hide behind their button-clicks and monitor-flashes, and avoid anything remotely human.
In the podcast where I mentioned this poll, I spoke about suicide and other such serious topics — topics of great personal significance. With a few exceptions, the people in the livechat did not change at all their humourous, banterous tone. This goes to show one thing and one alone: on the internet, human beings become spectacles, not living persons. Emotions are reduced down to the level of drama, existential crises are reduced down to the level of melodrama, and people walk in and out of doors unchanged. Night or day makes no difference to the blind man, as it becomes evidently clear. I write, record videos and podcasts, and converse with many different people because I wish to extend my humanity unto them and vice versa; I wish to smash through the glass wall of bourgeois pretension and falseness with a hammer of human complexity and potential. To show my scars and flaws to those around me in hopes that I lift them above the nihilism of modernity, to even a small degree. To show them and myself some depth is all I want to do, and yet it is becoming increasingly difficult as more people emerge, telling me all about their opinions on this and their thoughts on that. All of it extrinsic to questions of profundity, but we all have our beginning-points — I suppose my own impatience comes through here, as I lack the calm with some people and hastily look down on them as “shallow,” even though I was once in their shoes. It is the mass, you see; the quantity. Hundreds upon hundreds of comments and messages and emails and mentions… it wears down on me, like a sandstorm to exposed skin; eventually I have to huddle down behind whatever mound of granite I can find, even if it is suboptimally protecting my blooded limbs.
So, when I said I have come to dislike a vast quantity of people, what I really meant is “the vast quantity”; for it is the mass, the sheer quantity as opposed to quality, which I feel apart from. I can have a personal relationship with a few hundred people, going by experience. But otherwise I cannot — the person wanes and a mere image remains, this image spouting words on this or that topic might mirror the original person, but it is not him: far from it. How, then, do I manage an active YouTube channel which, despite my actively working against it, continues to grow? We are almost at one-thousand, seven-hundred and fifty subscribers, averaging a thousand views within a week for the podcast, and between four-hundred and nine-hundred for anything else. Granted, it is still small-time compared to what it could have been if I did things a little differently — and there is a satisfaction in such numbers — but that is simply too many people for me to be able to interact with in any meaningful manner. I can be “honest” and “open” about myself, but it seems an increasingly small percentile of my viewers have a tolerance or interest in that sort of thing, thus there come the misunderstandings and people leaving stupid comments where it is made clear that they have absolutely no idea what I am doing, nor why I am doing it. The “pompous” remark exemplifies this, for if such people actually cared about me, beyond not wanting their evening YouTube binge offset by my occasional emotional seriousness, then they would have contacted me privately about my behaviour and other matters. But, again, they do not — nor have they ever. They only care about the projected Adam Wallace who mentions Evola too much and thinks White Nationalists are not extreme enough; they do not care for the broken and lonely idiot I am beneath my preaching to the Alt-Right choir.
It is interesting when I use the word “extreme.” I mean emotional and spiritual intensity; conviction. White Nationalists — most of the people in the Alt-Right & co. — exist and live in the same way as the liberals they so love to critique and scorn. None of them have ever truly chosen their lives, truly chosen to be; they shuffle and meander-about like corpses, not even sinning with any extremity — lifeless, unoriginal, dull, grey, inwardly nonexistent: Der Ewige Normie stalks these here lands, so beware ye all who enter!
Anyways, this all begs the question of what to do. What shall I do with myself? I keep waiting for things to happen, and even when I go out into the world — as I did with my trip recently to speak at the London Forum — I am met with a degree of disappointment (more on the L.F. trip to come). I long for intense emotions and companionship, to feel the burn of fire and the cool of water.
Walking home from my grandparents’ house the other evening, I spotted the orange flicker of a streetlamp aglow to the backdrop of a thatched cottage, buried in a nest of foliage. The old walls stood between old trees, and a single window spoke of life within. The stupid grin on my face as I walked past this most cosy of scenes almost tore my chapped lips apart, though my pace slowing aided my blistered heels — you win some, you lose some, as the American saying goes. But in that moment — to get-around to explaining its relevance — was such a degree of existential calm and peace, knowing that this sacred land holds my worldly being. ’tis the bosom that cradles; the ol’ oaken land of the Angelfolc that nourishes and warms, even in the cold slumber of Autumntime. Such deep and thorough emotions, I wondered, might be totally absent to the experiences of so many in our contemporary hellscape. Truly a misery.
Regardless, tangents aside; the fact is that there are thousands of people giving their analyses upon politics and the like who are far more intelligent and like-able than me. I cannot outdo everyone in every way; even at West Coast Reactionaries, James, Alexander, Testis and others are far superior to me in virtually every regard. So what is the point in it all? In conversation with Testis the other day, I said this:
I’ve been thinking about the future recently and I don’t know what could happen — it’s never been something which I’ve thought about.
Suicidal thoughts have been re-emerging in the last couple of days. Not in a destructive sense, in the sense of tearing-down something pre-existent, but in the sense of a nonexistence; a clean slate. One of the central motivators for my creative work is that perhaps if I died tomorrow somehow, someone will pick-up the pieces and make sense of my existence. Something I cannot do. I was meditating on it lastnight; the idea of being understood — as clichéd as it can be — seems a prime motivator for most of my expression. If I were to psychologise it, I’d go back to the abuse I experienced when I was younger, and the lack of communication and understanding expressed there.
Understanding; comprehension; to know the true reality of a thing. Such is my state of affairs: a microcosm of contemporary Occidental society; the non-knowing of a thing or things, yet the desire to know, to burn with conviction and belief — that is the sign of a possible cure. I return to this point of fatherlessness, of being without a centre or guide, again and again, because it is precisely what motivates my present endeavours.
I am sure there will be found another excuse to continue things once certain mysteries are solved — and they shall, God willing — but I have been using a certain fuel for so long that to find a new supply is daunting, and I am unprepared for the journey in search of it. We will see how I do in time.