“Yes, she will be weary—she will be rendered weary, by daily facing all this modern stress. And when she’s weary—try a little tenderness.”
-Paraphrase of words written by three chivalrous men
In a society with so many a self-hating, penis-envying feminist wretch addicted to darting from crisis to crisis and fraud to fraud—desperate for the adrenaline-drips of reassurance that are the social nectar for haunted, hubristic hummingbirds that can but screech, groan, and cackle; and in a society with so many a glib and glutted man-child addicted to oversimplifying, as a mansplained data-point, such wretches’ imperfect reactions to a culture drowning in endless manufactured agony: Ours is an era overflowing with opportunities for courageous men to proceed from a foundation of manly chivalry.
Amid crowds of the frantically apathetic, whose rage-filled cowardice kills, in them, all hope and humor, to say nothing of happiness; among the scabbed and scathing frenemies bathing in the impotence of ill-intent — ingratitude, insatiety, infanticide: there is vast space to vest chaste heroes with an inheritance even of the entirety of the upcoming—not that heroes would cling to claiming everything. But they rightly could.
Centeredness and subtlety are among the virtues available in life, yet faith in the realness of stillness (a thing as impossible as it would be undesirable) is a dangerous vice—on the mind and in the heart: ever tempting towards the sin of inaction.