He sits there, pale, self-righteous, claiming to be misunderstood by the world. Martin Sellner, the tragicomic mascot of the Identitarian movement, once again finds life difficult. While other people spend their youth building relationships, reading books, or surviving capitalism, Sellner decided early on to dedicate his life to a single mission - fighting everything that doesn’t think like him - which is about 99.8 percent of humanity. In his sealed worldview with a tinfoil cap, everything is clear: he is the hero, the victim, the last European - and Twitter (or X, as Elon now calls it) is his sword. What looks like a meaningless post from the outside is, for him, apparently a crusade. Whether the sun is shining, children are laughing, or a rainbow appears in the sky - Sellner sees it all as the infiltration of Western civilization. And when he runs out of things to say, he simply films himself thinking. With depth of field. About the apocalypse.
His language is a mix of red alert, self-pity, and ancient rhetoric. Every half-sentence is doomsday, every retweet an SOS. But what truly defines him is not his opinion - but his boundless missionary zeal. Sellner doesn’t write to argue. He broadcasts because he believes a higher truth has been revealed to him. The truth that he alone is swimming against the current, while everyone else - 8 billion people, minus a few Telegram subscribers - are merely misled lemmings. The reality, however: the revolution never comes. Instead, he sits there, day after day, with a sad gaze fixed on reach statistics and algorithms that supposedly “shadowban” him. The ban, however, usually doesn’t come from the algorithm - but from the sheer boredom that arises when you rant about “globalists,” “leftist fascists,” or the “great replacement” for the hundredth time. No donation appeal helps anymore, even if adorned with Latin quotes.
And so, today, Martin Sellner is above all one thing: a symbol of the self-diminishment of political radicalism. A man who fights windmills with great zeal - but unfortunately not as Don Quixote, rather as his algorithm-generated clone with a high school diploma and a victim complex. He could have become a philosopher, maybe even an editor at some cryptic monthly magazine - but he chose a life of endless livestreams, somewhere between pathos and a PayPal link. What remains is a portrait in gray: a man who constantly warns of the downfall, but can’t manage to save his own worldview. A digital doom preacher whose greatest fear is not the Islamization of Europe, but that one day no one will listen anymore. And that, dear Martin, is probably the most fitting punishment democracy has to offer.
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