In the realm of ideas, some groups are the academic equivalent of trailer trash—marked by a malnourished intellect, physical impoverishment, and often very foul character.

Despite attempts at obfuscating their shallow intellect, they always confess their individual inferiority by their choice language: identity.

Lacking individual substance, the identitarian clings to race, gender, sexual orientation, nationality, and ideology—crutches that compensate for an absence of personal depth.

Like any trash found strewn across the streets, it doesn’t appear out of nowhere. Instead, the identitarian is the intellectual litter of fragile and embittered educators, discarded after what little potential they may have possessed is consumed.

Indeed, like hallowed reeds, the youth are carelessly carved into disposable instruments through which professors pipe their cacophonous ideologies of oppression.

Chaotic nihilism—the birthplace of dancing stars—is equally the birthplace of dancing puppets; a weak mind, thrown far from equilibrium, spontaneously reorders itself in the image of the nearest authority.

Even in the depths of filthy coal mines, a handful of diamonds may be mistakenly mined as ore—and used as fuel for unworthy ideologies.

To those few—fashioned in the image of trash, yet still bearing the potential for beauty beneath—I offer this antidote: set your surface aflame, then plunge into the depths of your chaotic becoming, that you might refashion yourself in an image all your own—awe-inspiring and true.