Let me tell you a bit about my experiences with the red pill. Drug stories can be fun, in large part because of they provide a transgressive taste of the taboo. This certainly is the case with the effects of this little red pill in the present culture. I will sketch some of my experiences; for many readers this may bring back memories. We can chuckle together about my story, being both in the know, and sharing in the taboo.
* * *
The pill worked slowly for me. Perhaps as a consequence of a difference in metabolism. Should I blame my liver? No, that makes no sense: this pill is not chemical, but ideological in its composition.
I first encountered the red pill in a dark alley of the internet; a friend took me there. I trusted him and, more importantly with psychedelic drugs, myself, so I took the pill. After this I kept looking at my watch. When will it kick in? Did I get the dosing right?
Then, my vision started to change. As I went through life I began to see colors that I somehow missed before. Obvious differences in color. I looked at the skin of my own hands, the face in the mirror. Here, again, I noticed a color that I thought was missing. The discovery of this color was not without its pleasure. Finding identity feels like coming home.
In addition to the colors, people in the “multicultural” streets started to change shape. Masks fell to the ground. Boiling ressentiment and hatreds were uncovered. A slight paranoia took hold: did I aspire to neutrality in a war that allows no such thing? At least the war was still cold. There was time to adjust the strategy.
* * *
I have heard the accounts of others who took the red pill. The accounts differ from each other, and from mine. Maybe we took pills from different batches. Who knows what they cook up in those labs.
For me, the next phase was a difference in feeling. Both good and bad. There was anger, of course. The betrayal runs deep, and you’re not sure who to point your finger at. Which ideas, which masterminds, which groups? I still am not sure. But I’ve come to accept that the blame lies in part with myself. How could I be so gullible? So ‘correct’ and trivial? So cucked?
Another less pleasant effect of the red pill — let’s call it a side effect — is alienation. I’m still feeling this as well. As we stumble out of Plato’s cave (repeatedly falling down, getting scratched, stumping toes. . .) we usually leave loved ones behind. Our family and friends are still tied down, somewhere in the deep darkness — but at least they are together. Their happy chatting fades away as we climb out of the cave. A loneliness takes hold. Still we go on: the process of redpilling cannot be interrupted without breaking our intellectual integrity. We near the exit of the cave and squint because of the bright light. We can start to see shapes outside. No one to share the view with, for now.
As my red-pilling progressed, my vision sharpened, and also my sense of smell. A keen sense of smell is an unfortunate ability to have in the current West. You come to realize that you live in an open sewer. The stink of cultural rot is almost everywhere; it seems to penetrate all areas of life. The smell can be overwhelming. In the weekends I had to flee to nature or the countryside for some fresh air. Our prophet Nietzsche, always noticing the bodily aspects of the issue, already pointed to the smell of the Last Man. When nobody was looking, I smelled my own armpits. I was repulsed; better not do that again until much later.
In time we get used to the smell. And we can still avoid much of the filth if we try. We certainly don’t want to return to our previous state of ignorance, viewing this sewer as an oasis of freedom and (don’t laugh) cultural progress. I still remember swimming in the water; drinking it happily. Living rootless, without history, without the aspiration to depth, nor to go upwards. Passively allowing them to feed me their poison via popular “culture”, the “news”, the school curriculum, etc. I sometimes look at the dirty water as it oozes by, thinking of my former self. The red pill then pulls me along.
* * *
Given the side effects, there is the question of ignorance as bliss. I ponder this question as I look back into the cave. My impression is that most “normies” are no longer exempt from the feeling of approaching doom; at least not in Europe, where I live. The increasingly frequent terrorist attacks. News of mass rapes. Soon a new financial implosion that will have the world trembling. No matter how deep they still are in the cave: most can feel the cold of Fimbulwinter coming in.
* * *
The red pill elicits visions. I see a cruise ship that had been sailing without problems for too long. The passengers and crew have been enjoying the sun and the food; they are growing bored, although they are afraid to admit this. Then the ship hits a reef. The ship trembles; steel screeches. The sea has given its first warning.
The navigator scratches his head: the reef shouldn’t have been there. It is as if the sea no longer cares about his map of the world. The ship starts to pass other shallow reefs, glimmering through the water’s surface; in the distance icebergs raise their heads out of the water.
Another hit: again the ship shakes. Everyone is on deck now. The passengers surround members of the crew, demanding answers. “Was that a near miss?” “Where are we heading?” The passengers start to doubt their captain, the course of the ship. They still trust the captain, who, for as long as they could — and were allowed to — remember, has always guided them toward more sun and more comfort. When they boarded the ship, they were told that it would always keep sailing, would keep going forward, always to sunnier places. But now, with every new collision, not only the hull of the ship, but also their trust receives further damage.
The passengers haven’t transformed yet, however. Perhaps they never will: the Last Man clings to his title. The passengers were still fundamentally vacationers, with the shining comfort of the cruise as their highest aspiration. Outside of the ship they feel a great nothingness. Nothing that could judge them; no appraising eye to care about. And no ladder to climb toward the sun. The idea alone of such a ladder creates unrest aboard the ship.
The cruise ship had been sailing for a long time; Mount Olympus has since long disappeared behind the horizon. As far as the passengers and crew are concerned, there is nothing beyond the ship. The only thing they can hope for was a safe voyage, and a bountiful walking buffet.
The vision ends with me on the ship, standing in front of a lifeboat. I’m tired of being a Cassandra; my throat is sore from all the crying in the wilderness. And unlike her, I can still leave this Troy. I hear of white islands to the east, where the inhabitants are more alive. The trees there would still have deep roots, and their branches would yet reach the skies. I’m still young; maybe I should just head off to one of those places. But would this evacuation amount to wisdom or cowardice? And what about my loved ones? I think about these questions as I look at the lifeboat.
* * *
The pill pushes us toward such evaluations of our life plans. The point is not the possible sinking of this prospective Titanic — I hope to have transcended such a petty focus on comfort and safety. The point is that, even as the ship still sails, we are already drowning in the trivial and ugly. And I am getting tired from keeping my head above water.
* * *
I mustn’t exaggerate the bitter taste of my red pill, though. Reading back I think I may have. Time to correct this picture. The pill should be welcomed as a liberator: it frees the mind from the dark swamp of egalitarian thought.
I’m still amazed at the effectiveness of the egalitarian illusion. A masterful conjurer is at work here. For a long time he managed to convince me of equality where there was none; successfully pulled my attention away from clear differences in natures, abilities, and quality. He convinced me that the recognition of this false equality was just, instead of the respect for legitimate hierarchy. This egalitarian saboteur of my faculty of judgment. . . But the illusion stops working when we learn the secret behind the trick — when its genealogy becomes clear to us.
It’s actually only a silly magic trick, this “Equality”; and the resulting show gets boring quickly. No more lion tamers. No more trapeze artists, climbing ever higher.
“The rabbit is in his sleeve!” we yell laughing, while sitting in the dark of the theater hall. The illusionist looks nervously into the audience; pearls of sweat adorn his ugly face. Some other audience members start laughing as well. Others look over disturbed: they want the show to go on, which served their egos and interests. Still laughing we get up and leave the theater — out to look for magic that we can, and want to, believe in.
* * *
The pill is a medicine that kills the idea-viruses inside us that make us weak. We are cleansed of their morality, their deadening metaphysics, their lies. Freed from the fictitious past that they have designed for us. During this killing-off phase you may feel weakened, because it’s a lot to process. But then, recovery starts: it’s announced by the return of our laughter. The joyful wisdom starts to bloom in the mind like flowers in spring; the weeds of pathological guilt and confused thinking die-off. Our will to power gets untangled from its egalitarian snares and starts its healthy growth.
* * *
The pill is still more: a message from a lawyer, informing us of our rightful inheritance. We learn that we have inherited a home — a place to call home, to come home to. Identity. Being a white “millennial” in the West means being raised as an ethnic orphan. Imagine my happy surprise when the lawyer called.
Thrilled about the news, we quickly get to the house to explore it. It’s the most beautiful house on the block. We see a frog sitting next the pond in the English garden; he gives us a smug look. Laughing we get into the house, where the rooms look strangely familiar. The memory of blood at work? We then get to the attic, where, beneath the dust, we discover the true treasure: the traditions, wisdom and examples of our forefathers. Their myths, their triumphs in literature, art and music: healthy food for the soul that makes us strong. We feel pride in the achievements of those whose blood we share; and we are emboldened by the implications for our own potential.
A great joy washes over us. This is ours. The red pill makes us realize that we are rich.
* * *
As I write this, I am still tripping. The pill is relentless in a way. It pulls us away from (what is considered) respectable opinion in many areas of thought. Sometimes we resist this process vehemently: we refuse to enter certain paths of inquiry, afraid that we will waste our time, or that we will lose what has brought us this far, namely our critical mind. For me this also applied to what I here shall simply call “religion”. But again the red pill lets me surprise myself, and pushed me to reevaluate previous bland materialist convictions.
Not without an inner fight, though. Many times my sceptic side blocked this push of the red pill into the area of religion, toward ideas and experiences that are part of what Ernst Jünger calls the “forest passage”. My inner sceptic seemed right: who knows where this path into the “forest” will lead? I’ve always heard there is only darkness there, amidst the trees. Then again: a look won’t hurt, will it? My curious side reasoned with my sceptic: come along on the path, watch our back, and make sure we don’t get lost. Finally, the sceptic conceded. I trusted the strength of my reason and recognized that it was dogma, quite unscientific, that kept me afraid of the path. So I entered the forest, and gained a world.
My red pill, my path, my teachers. I know here again users report different experiences (if they even needed a red pill in this area). For me, it began with the Buddha, that great Aryan teacher from the East, who teaches how to silence the mind, so that we may hear. Then Heidegger, that shaman from the Black Forest, who invented a philosophical poetry — like magic spells — that teaches us what to listen for. The deepest Truth. The Always Same. And finally also Jünger, the already-mentioned Anarch, who shows us the way to the most fundamental freedom, which is always in our possession, and that makes us indomitable.
* * *
And so the trip keeps on going; I’m still falling down the rabbit hole. The pill keeps on giving. The experience scares and excites; the medicine transports us to other worlds and another life — another future. Perhaps it is time to become a dealer in the red pill myself. I’m sure this will be a successful venture — because with a drug like this, who needs another one ever again?
David Duke’s Bottle of Red Pills
When Tucker Met Moldbug
La Femme Fatale Française de TikTok: Un entretien avec Estelle Redpill
La Femme Fatale Française de TikTok: An Interview with Estelle Redpill
Race Consciousness & Basketball
The Night I Was Called “Nigger” (Twice)
The Red-Pilling of Spencer Quinn
Rediscovering a Song