The Art of Virtuous Decay

I’ve always preferred my morals slightly fermented. They taste richer that way — half sin, half sincerity. This isn’t redemption. It’s curation.

The Gospels of My Own Ruin

1. I idolize the Western world. I see it as the natural endpoint of civilization — as if history were an audition and the West got the lead role.

2. I believe Western civilization is superior. I measure progress by its reflection, even when the mirror’s cracked.

3. I think I’m better than everyone else yet still hate myself. Pride and disgust, in perfect symmetry — arrogance as defense, self-loathing as proof of depth.

4. I romanticize lost worlds. Republics, empires, summers. Everything becomes myth once it’s gone.

5. Freedom is my holy word. I use it to bless everything I love and condemn everything I don’t.

6. I distrust authority — until it starts resembling me. I don’t crave power, only the comfort of seeing my own logic reflected in those who hold it.

7. I aestheticize my vices. Damaging my liver feels almost noble if I pour the poison into the proper wine glass and call it taste.

8. I mistake disillusionment for wisdom. It’s easier to sneer than to hope.

9. I crave recognition but despise needing it. I act like I don’t care who’s watching — but boy, do I.

10. I confuse self-awareness with self-improvement. Knowing what’s wrong with me has become my favorite hobby.

11. I romanticize isolation. I call it clarity, though it’s mostly fear of being ordinary.

12. I weaponize intelligence to hide insecurity. I don’t speak to impress; I speak to stay untouchable. It’s easier to sound in control than to admit I’m not.

13. I fetishize collapse. Every fallen empire is an alibi for my own decay.

14. I compound my own beautiful truth. I season my truths until they taste right.

15. I think suffering makes people interesting. It doesn’t — I just can’t stand those untouched by it.

16. I despise conformity — unless people conform to my taste. Freedom for all, but preferably the stylish kind.

17. I glorify the West for what it was, not what it is. I talk to ghosts and call it politics.

18. I equate productivity with purpose. If I’m not producing something, I fear I’m nothing.

19. I mistake melancholy for depth. Sadness feels safer than shallowness.

20. I admire people who don’t need validation — while needing theirs. Envy disguised as respect.

21. I advise others on how to live beautifully. Meanwhile, I’m busy perfecting the art of wasting my own life elegantly.

22. I think truth should be beautiful, even when it isn’t. I dress reality before I face it.

23. I fear resemblance more than failure. I’d rather stand still than risk becoming the echo I escaped.

24. I fall into the same pits deliberately. It’s boring to resolve things; some mistakes deserve a second act. Or tenth.

Maybe the worst bias of all is pretending I want to be better.
I don’t. And I can’t decide if that’s freedom or failure.
Maybe it isn’t beauty I love after all. Maybe it’s the excuse to decay.

Perhaps the real decay isn’t moral but creative — the slow corrosion of possibility.
The awareness that knowing myself so well has made me predictable to myself.
Maybe that’s the price of elegance: no surprises left.