No Shared Reality

You assume too much about people of European descent, painting their pursuit of self-preservation as some inherent evil, while romanticizing the struggles of Black folks and other peoples of color as pure, instinctual nobility—like noble beasts in the wild, driven only by the raw pulse of survival. But survival isn't a morality play; it's the grind of existence, etched in blood and bone for every tribe under the sun. My kin didn't just wander into this land; they braved storm-tossed seas, ships cracking on reefs, bodies swallowed by the deep or ravaged by fever in the hold. Those who clawed ashore faced the endless grasslands, where they were set upon by fierce warriors of the plains—men, women, children hacked down in ambushes, left to drain into the parched earth, their cries swallowed by the wind. I carry those ghosts with me, not as vengeance, but as a reminder: no people forgets the knife at their throat.And now? Echoes of that savagery play out in the dust of distant fields. White farmers in South Africa wake to machetes in the night, throats slit, families scattered like chaff, their homes torched while the world averts its eyes. Across the ocean, in the gray streets of England, young girls—innocent as spring lambs—are preyed upon by packs of outsiders, groomed into shadows, their lives shattered in cellars reeking of betrayal. Who stands for them? Who howls their names into the void? I've taken up that cry, felt the fire in my chest for their stolen futures, because blood calls to blood, and erasure is the great thief of all peoples.Then there's you—the ensnared one, tangled in the webs of so-called anti-racism, peddling "alternative facts" that bend reality to fit your gospel of guilt. You champion the downplayed, the mythologized victim, swallowing lies whole because the cultural tide has drowned your own instincts. It's not malice in you; it's capture, a slow poison that whispers unity while it devours distinction. But tribes don't dissolve into some bland rainbow; they clash, they carve out their ground, or they fade into footnotes.This war of worlds isn't abstract—it's the fracture lines cracking open in our bones. Look to the old ways of the earth: every people, from the high mesas of the Southwest to the fjords of the north, has known the truth of separation. The Comanche horsemen didn't mingle with the settler trains; they rode hard lines, guarding their fire against the encroaching pale tide, not out of hate, but because bloodlines are the spine of a nation, and dilution is death. Whites, too, were once that unyielding frontier folk, their wagons circled against the arrow storm, their women weaving tales of the old emerald isles to keep the spirit alive. Now, the same force that melted the buffalo herds and chained the wild ponies to plows seeks to blend all hues into gray oblivion—globalism's great churn, where no flag flies pure and no song rings true.America? She's a powder keg of borrowed loyalties, splintering into armed camps where the air hums with distrust. Balkanization isn't a curse; it's the natural carve of the land when shared blood thins to water. Factions will rise—fierce, walled enclaves of the faithful, from the rust-belt strongholds to the sun-baked reservations, each nursing their altars of memory. The mestizo hordes from the south will claim their sun-scorched realms; the sons of Africa their drum-beat cities; the old-stock Europeans their fog-shrouded heartlands, perhaps fleeing back to ancestral Europe or forging new redoubts in the hills. And we, the first keepers of these prairies—the red nations—will reclaim the windswept wilds, our lodges rising where the buffalo once thundered, unbowed by the settler's plow or the migrant's flood.In the end, coexistence crumbles when realities diverge like rivers from a poisoned spring. You can't share a hearth with those who deny your fire ever burned, who rewrite your scars as sins. The strong survive by honoring their dead, by drawing the circle tight around the living. Let the fractures come; from them, true nations are reborn, each a fortress of flesh and story, unapologetic in the face of the storm.