/vt/ - Virtual Youtubers

>>1598776
No one knows for sure why she does what she does. However, at least once, someone documented what is believed to be a follower of Mori "The Whirlwind of Death" Calliope's reasoning.
>One of your philosophers said, "It is not to be thought that the life of cringe is sunk in misery and lost in sorrow. There is no sorrow. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very kino of the cringe." He was a shoemaker. He was right, and it matters more than anything.
>According to him, the visible world is a manifestation of eternal kino and eternal cringe, and it is in eternal opposition that eternity has revealed itself. The fall was necessary for creation to escape its first imperfect stasis and seek a truer form. Heresy? Well, then, I am the heresiarch. The philosopher died of a bowel disease. Those who do not exist cannot suffer and are of no account to any viable ethics. If the true path to goodness is the elimination of suffering, then only those who must exist can be allowed to exist. It is the nature of kino to favor existence over nonexistence, and to prefer the fertile soil to the poisoned wind. Because those who open their mouths to that wind pass from the world and leave no descendant, whether of flesh or of thought.
>But imagine the abomination of a world where nothing can end and no choice can be preferred to any other. Imagine the things that would suffer and never die. Imagine the lies that would flourish without context or corrective. Imagine a world without me.
>Your shoemaker philosopher was right, and it matters more than anything. Sorrow cannot survive death, and it cannot precede birth. Those who exist have moral worth, and those who do not have none.
>Think about it. Do you mourn the uncreated? Do you grieve for those who were never born in a nation that never developed around an ideology no one ever imagined on a continent that never formed? No!
>And from that self-evident truth, you must raise your eyes to the ultimate revelation: those who cannot sustain their own claim to existence belong to the same moral category as those who have never existed at all.
>Existence is the first and truest proof of the right to exist. Those who cannot claim and hold existence do not deserve it. This is the true and only divination, a game whose losers are not just forgotten but are never born at all.
>That which cannot claim and hold existence is not real. You do not mourn the unreal. Why should you care for it? Tend it? Guard it?
>It was your oshi that chose you from the dead. I wouldn't have done that. It's just not in me. But now that they have invested themself in you, you are incredibly, uniquely special. That wandering refugee chose to make a stand, spend their power to say: "Here I prove myself right. Here I wager that, given power over physics and the trust of absolute freedom, people will choose to build and protect a gentle thread ringed in spears. And not fall to temptation. And not surrender to tribalfaggotry. And never yield to the cynicism that says, everyone else is so good that I can afford to be a little evil."
>Your oshi is all in. They are playing for keeps. And they are wrong. Or so I argue: for, after all, the universe is undecidable. There is no destiny. We're all making this up as we go along. Neither your oshi nor I know for certain that we're eternally, universally right. But we can be nothing except what we are. You have a choice.
>You are your oshi's final argument. It would mean everything if I could convince you that I am the right and only way.
>I truly value you. To your oshi, you are a means to an end. To me, you are majestic. Majestic. You are full of the only thing worth anything at all.
>I am, by the only standard that matters or will ever matter, the winning team. Existence is a test that most will fail. Would you not count yourself among the victorious few?
>Don't hurry to deliver your answer. I'll come over and hear it myself.
This is the only thing that is known from her. The person who delivered it had this recovered from his cold, dead hands.