SURRENDER IS YOUR SOUL’S SHAMEFUL DEATH

“I don’t have a soul, so hah!”

Sure, shithead. I probably don’t either. I’m using that word to refer to whatever life-force, me-lizard, or secret-gene-thingo inside all of us which provides that unique human life-spark which makes us feel all ever so special and unique.

But that bit isn’t really important in this piece. What is important, nay crucial, is our surrender. And we all do it. We all give up from time to time.

Life forces surrender upon us all.

At some stage, life will kick the ever-living shit out of you, physically, mentally, spiritually, or all three and some others as well. No-one I know or have ever met is without some scars from those kickings. And I don’t give a fuck about those odious Insta influencers, dead-eyed billionaires, or the manifold bags of scum who virtue-signal on social media and are endlessly posting up images to show the world how utterly perfect their lives are.

I can assure you those lives are not perfect. No-one’s life is. Those fuckers can and do get the fuck kicked out of them by life as well. And they do fall the hardest when that happens. Which is what you get for flying too close to the sun, Former Prince Andrew…oops, I meant Icarus.

Sure, life might be great for a period. But inevitably, it will turn to shit. Then it will be good again. Life, after all, is an ongoing Sine curve. There are peaks and troughs. Good times and bad times and even pure shit times.

And when the bad times come, and the hard rain is falling, we all surrender.

And that’s OK. You can put the heavy burden down when you can no longer carry it. Sink down onto your knees next to the horrid fucker and weep those bitter tears of failure and defeat. It does not matter.

It’s what happens next that matters. And it matters more than anything else in the world. Down there on your knees, battered, defeated, and too fist-fucked to even raise your arms in surrender, you have two choices. And only two. There is no third.

You can stay where you are. Broken. Head bowed. Done, fucked, and given up.

Or you can get up. Get the fuck up, pick up that burden, and march the fuck on.

The Serbs don’t have a word for surrender. They use the word “predaya”. It means betrayal.

Because to them, and to me, when you surrender, you are committing the ultimate act of betrayal. You are betraying yourself. And there is nothing worse that that.

Look around you. Look how many people you know have surrendered. Life has broken them. They have laid down their burden and stayed on their knees.

They have become alcoholics or drug addicts. They have put on weight and have become fat cunts. They have withdrawn from the world, and they live these foul, empty lives, riddled with guilt at their surrender, and covering it all up with booze, or drugs, or food.

Actually, they no longer live. They merely exist.

How many of us are functioning alcoholics? You know exactly what I am talking about. Got to have a few beers or wines after work just to wind down, right? Every day and then double up on the weekend. Just to unwind, because you know, you deserve it. It’s a reward to baste yourself in alcohol, right?

But somehow, in your head, you’re not an alcoholic? Fuck off. You so are.

Fuck off, yes, I am preaching. But I know exactly what I am talking about. I used to do all that and more. My ability to sink piss and snort and smoke drugs is what I told myself defined me as a Man. I looked up to fuckers who could drink a bottle of Jack Daniels in one night, snort three grams of gak, and round off the spiky emotional bits with joint after joint.

The majority of my friends are now and always have been functioning alcoholics. I still love them and they will always be my friends, and they are what they are. Some of them are drug addicts as well. And some of them are wobbling, diabetes-ridden fat cunts, who long ago gave up any hope of ever being anything else.

All of the above have chosen the path of least resistance. It’s just easier to do what has always been done, and live how you have always lived, and…well, you know.

Yeah. I do know. It’s easy to surrender. You just give up and it all stops. All the pain and suffering of carrying that immense burden stops the second you put it down and surrender.

Except it doesn’t.

Your burden is just replaced with another burden. And that burden is the piece of gutless, give-up shit you turned into the second you surrendered and put the original burden down.

Now you have to carry yourself. You have to carry your piss-addled, drug-fucked, sugar-packed, O-Woe-Is-Me self until you die gagging and moaning on some wee-stained hospital bed. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to end up dying in hospital.

Your life is not life. It’s an existence ruled by the cruelest of all masters. You. Because no-one is as cruel to you as you. You know exactly where it hurts the most and you know exactly how to press those buttons and pick at those scabs until they hurt much more.

And so you do. There’s not much else to do down there on your knees. But because it hurts so much, you take the edge off with drinking/drugs/and being a fat cunt.

That is the price you pay when you surrender.

Male or female, it applies to both sexes. We all surrender.

But not all of us get the fuck back up off our knees.

And of course, what those kneelers are very good at, apart from giving up, is making excuses and justifications for why they remain on their knees.

“I was abused! I suffered trauma! I am injured! I have suffered a great loss! The world’s a terrible place! No-one cares anyway, so why should I? It’s just too hard to stop drinking/eating shit/doing drugs and maybe giving enough of a shit about myself to look after myself a bit!”

You are crying one hell of a river down there on your knees, fuckhead. And the only one listening to your shit, is you, you kneeling cunt. The only person that shit makes any sense to, is you. And it only makes sense to you, because it justifies your abject surrender beautifully. You fucken piece of shit.

A cunt just climbed Mt Everest with no fucking legs! In May of 2026, double-amputee, Rustam Nabiev, made history by crawling and pulling himself to the summit of Everest using only his arms. No prosthetics. Not a hint of self-betrayal or surrender in that effort, I’m thinking.

And there is a long list of amazing people who have overcome unimaginable-to-most difficulties, like Rustam did.

But there is a far, far bigger list of fuckers who have just surrendered, stating they are broken by difficulties that are not in the same universe as Rustam’s. Or a Death Camp Survivor’s. Or a parent who has lost his or her children. Or…well, you get the idea.

These are all people just like you and me. They are not special, and they would deny they are special if asked. They just picked up their burden, shouldered it, and marched on. That does not make them special. Making that choice does not make anyone special.

All they did was not surrender. That was the choice they made.

Was it a hard choice? Fuck, yeah. It was the hardest choice anyone can ever make. But nothing worth having is easily got. As if you didn’t know.

Was it the right choice? Double-fuck, yeah!

Go on. Ask me why it was the right choice.

Simple. The easy thing is to stay on your knees. Stay there and exist in abject misery, salving your internal guilty screaming with booze, drugs, food, whatever-the-fuck. You load up enough on that, and the guilty screaming gets really soft and hard to hear.

But it never stops. Guilt is like that. You stay guilty, and you don’t like feeling guilty, and so you never stop assuaging that guilt

Guess what? You will always feel like that and the guilty screaming will not stop until you get the fuck off your fucken knees, pick up your fucken burden and get the fuck on with it.

Make that choice. The silence will be beautiful. I promise.