Half a Century of Sodomizing Western Values: From Postmodern Illusion to the Sugar-Daddy-Babylonian-Whore Culture — And the Stark Need for Reconstruction
This article addresses the deeper cultural disintegration of the West over the past fifty years, culminating in what can be described as the “Sugar-Daddy-Babylonian-Whore” culture — a decadent ecosystem built on short-term gratification, parasitic relationships, and spiritual self-delusion. What we are witnessing is not simply a moral decline, but an axiomatic collapse: a culture that has severed its connection to first principles, dismissed the sacred architecture of traditional marriage and loyal kinship, and replaced these with an empty shell of postmodern “tolerance” and pseudo-spirituality. The dominant ethos — often masked in the language of mindfulness, empowerment, and “energy” — is in reality a permission structure for self-indulgence without consequence, moral evasion dressed in the soft fabrics of yoga pants, nonfat decaf organic soy-latte and mantras. Behind the incense is a void. What is urgently needed is not just critique, but a reconstruction grounded in durable metaphysical truths, hierarchies of value, and relational fidelity.
Narrative as the Axiomatic Centre of One’s Life
Most people intuitively perceive themselves as the center of their universe. This isn’t merely a narcissistic illusion — it’s a structural truth about experience. We live from the inside out. The world appears to surround me, and I, as an embodied agent, navigate it, make decisions, and encounter others who seem to do the same. This intuitive worldview — of being inthe world and acting within it — is not naïve. In fact, some of the most brilliant thinkers have taken it seriously, recognizing it as a foundational mode of orientation.
Kant’s Copernican Revolution in philosophy did not reject this view outright but shifted the ground beneath it. According to Kant, we are not passive recipients of a ready-made world, but active constructors of it. Time and space are not features of the world “out there”; they are the a priori scaffolding through which our minds make the world intelligible. In this sense, reality is not given — it is synthesized.
This insight was not erased by later developments in physics. Einstein’s relativistic spacetime does not nullify Kant — it deepens and recasts the Newtonian framework Kant was responding to. Yet even as relativity dissolves the idea of a fixed temporal order, we still live within a stream of narrative time. Whether through continuous flow or punctuated memory, our lives are experienced as sequenced, directional, and meaningful.
The question then becomes: What is the true center of this experience? If we are not simply atoms drifting through meaningless forces, what is it that orders and orients our consciousness?
Axiomatology proposes a further Copernican turn. Not just from object to subject, as in Kant — but from subject to narrative. You are not the center. Your story is.
This is not poetic metaphor but metaphysical claim: the narrative you live — your enacted value hierarchy, your repeated decisions, your enduring roles — is the true ontological anchor of your identity. It is not the "self" that gives rise to the narrative; it is the narrative that gives structure and coherence to the self. And if that narrative aligns with deeper axiomatic principles — of loyalty, love, sacrifice, creation — then your life becomes a local enactment of a cosmic order.
The self becomes intelligible not by introspection, but by reading the story it tells — and the values that story reveals. This is the core of the Axiomatic Copernican Turn: not self-centered being, but narrative-centered existence.
Authority of the Narrative
The idea of seeing life as a greater story is nothing new—it can be found across many practices throughout world history. However, the principal question concerns our agency within that story. Before our very eyes, the Western world has turned into a marketplace of “highly spiritual” and yoga-related practices that seem attractive and even meaningful at first glance. Yet, when taken to their core structure, they increasingly resemble narratives that are simply being played out in front of the viewer—who ultimately has zero agency, and therefore no real responsibility for meaningful or radical intervention.
Often, such narratives claim that the self is an illusion or a temporary expression of something pointing to the One. Personal effort is seen as futile or illusory, as if it cannot have any true effect on the universe. This type of framing tends to dissolve the boundary between self and other, dream and reality, thereby radically undermining the notion of a fixed, agentic self. The universe is imagined as something that unrolls itself, dropping knowledge drop by drop, and the only real “agency” a person can exercise is the relinquishing of agency itself—not the act of claiming more control over life.
Instead of radical action or seizing the day, many such practices encourage the individual to become a “harmony-seeking” onlooker and promote non-doing instead of real involvement or bold, value-driven action. Many who immerse themselves in these systems begin to see themselves as mere lenses through which Oneness expresses itself—without personal authorship over their own story.
In many practices, it is directly stated or implied that the self is an illusion—and so is control. Everything is universal and thus united. The path forward lies in letting go of personal control and emptying the self. Some even suggest that simply being an individual in the world is insufficient; one must recognize that real being lies in merging into universal unity. The core practice becomes surrender—letting go of one's individual identity to merge with a divine or impersonal phenomenon. And when God is introduced into these frameworks, the boundary between the individual and the divine is often blurred to the point of dissolution. The individual must surrender the illusion of being a creator or active agent and instead cultivate the capacity to experience life as part of a larger, impersonal whole.
In addition to this, material wealth is often treated as either a prison or an illusion, crafted by lower or less developed forces. The individual self is seen as a veil that must be lifted for union with divine reality. Action from self-will is considered interference or noise. One's role as an active agent is seen as illusory—a social construct layered over a fundamentally impersonal process. What we call “I” becomes merely a narrative over a mechanism that no one is truly directing. The individual is described not as a writer of their own story, but as an aperture through which the universe looks at and explores itself. We are not the originators of the story—we are the ones to whom it is read.
This leads to the idea that control over one’s destiny is largely an illusion. The desire to will or strive becomes the problem, not the solution. The role of the moral agent or author is erased, and one is invited to become a listener, watching life unfold without interference.
The so-called “egoic mind” is portrayed as a distortion of reality, and suffering is believed to stem from identifying with it. The very moment one tries to affirm themselves as an agent, this is framed as a conditioned mind-pattern—a lesser, more deluded mode of being. Life is described as giving each person the experience most suited to the evolution of their consciousness. In this framework, meaningful agency is replaced by teleological determinism. One should witness life, not steer it; one should detach from the illusion of control. Overcoming the self and achieving “presence” means relocating all meaning and authorship to the impersonal Now.
Many such views also imply that the individual self is a byproduct of naturalistic processes—evolution, environment, and conditioning—not a metaphysical agent capable of authentic decision-making. This leads some to conclude that free will itself is an illusion, and that if we cannot control our own lives, it is absurd to believe we could meaningfully influence the lives of our children. Consciousness and agency are reduced to emergent properties of a system with no true center or control point.
In conclusion, the individual as agent or author of their own story is effectively negated. We are told to witness, accept, or surrender rather than act. Control over destiny and authorship are reframed as illusions or egoic constructs. The highest aspiration becomes “alignment with the impersonal flow”—not transformation of the world through value-based, personal action.
Defining Meaning from the End
One of the most misunderstood dimensions of meaningful narrative—especially within postmodern or psychologically flattened frameworks—is that the meaning of a life story, or any narrative of weight, cannot be known in the middle. Meaning is not extrapolated forward through arithmetic progression. It is crystallized backwards—it emerges from the end.
In Axiomatology, this principle is essential: the meaning of a sequence (a life, a marriage, a mission, a suffering) cannot be understood by summing its moments in real time. The meaning is metaphysical—it requires a final node, a closure point, to reformat the previous events in light of their final consequence. This is not just narrative technique—it is an ontological reality: all true stories are eschatological.
Each significant story therefore contains an implicit reconfiguration of the past from the standpoint of the end. A single final moment—of betrayal, revelation, death, resurrection, or despair—rewrites the structure of what came before. What once looked like romance based on mutual trust and respect becomes delusion. What once felt like freedom becomes entropy. What seemed like a minor act of discipline becomes a moment of profound spiritual obedience. The final node reconfigures the totality.
To illustrate this, let us briefly consider a secular example, first.
Mulholland Drive — A Story That Makes Sense from the End
Perhaps my academic friends didn’t expect me to bring up Mulholland Drive, but it serves as an excellent example of a deeply axiomatic narrative structure—one that only reveals its meaning in reverse. At first glance, the film seems to offer a classic Hollywood tale of hope. A young woman named Diane (as “Betty") arrives in Los Angeles, full of dreams, excitement, and conviction that she can “make it.” Raised in a small town, fueled by past local talent show wins, she embodies the “go get it, girl” spirit—life is her oyster, and the world appears full of possibility.
We follow her through what seems like the bright ascent of a young artist: friendly encounters, career developments, a budding intimate connection with a charismatic companion named Camilla (“Rita”). The tone is optimistic. Reality seems gentle, opportunity abundant, and love attainable.
But Mulholland Drive is not a linear story. It is an ontological spiral—and the spiral turns inward. As we reach the end, the entire narrative collapses into itself. The characters we believed to be real—Rita included—are revealed as delusional constructs. The events were not flashbacks, but desperate fantasies. What we witnessed was not the climb toward success but the final flickering of an unraveling mind. The gun on the bedside table appears. Diane, drugged, broken, spiritually dismembered, takes her own life. The entire film is now reclassified as the mental dreamwork of a woman moments away from suicide.
And here lies the crucial narrative logic: the story only makes sense when viewed from its ending. The scenes that once seemed full of promise are now understood as tragic hallucinations. The smiles were masks. Friendship was abandonment. Love was loss. Hope was denial. Even the sense of justice or order was inverted—darkness wore a smile.
What initially looked like progress toward a goal is now exposed as the spiritual descent into hell. The kindness of others turns out to be Diane’s desperate wish for redemption. But redemption never comes—because the very structure of her self-narration was built on fantasy, not truth.
This film’s structure mirrors Axiomatic Narrative Theory: meaning does not reside in the middle of the journey—it crystallizes only through retrospective coherence. In Mulholland Drive, the past is not what it seemed, because the future reveals the true frame. In axiological terms: only from the final node does the story gain its essence.
That’s the lesson Lynch gives us—and it’s an ontological one: not every story is real just because it feels good while you’re inside it. Many stories feel “true” while they are being lived—but only the ending defines whether they were built on value or delusion.
The Bible – The Story of Meaning Revealed Through Suffering
The same backward-rendered logic of meaning seen in art and cinema is even more powerfully embedded in the biblical corpus. The Bible is not a list of abstract moral rules—it is a library of layered narratives. And these narratives, when viewed from the end, reveal the true structure of moral meaning.
It is tempting—especially in today’s fragmented spiritual culture—to extract single verses or themes and reinterpret them for hedonistic self-justification. Modern readers often cherry-pick phrases like “Only God can judge me” or invoke the idea of a "deathbed confession" as a theological escape hatch—an imagined loophole for avoiding long-term responsibility and pain while still securing salvation. This tendency to isolate fragments reflects the postmodern condition: shallow meaning pulled from disconnected scenes, ignoring the end.
But the Bible resists that. Its meaning—like any profound narrative—only reveals itself through end-directed interpretation. You cannot know what the story means unless you read it through the lens of the Cross. Without the crucifixion, suffering, betrayal, and untimely death of Christ, the entire structure of the New Testament would collapse. And without the suffering of the prophets, the exiles, and the martyrs, the Old Testament would lose its moral trajectory.
The central narrative of Scripture is not one of instant redemption or easy grace. It is not the story of a God who forgives everyone automatically upon request, no matter their sincerity or the structure of their life. It is the story of a man—God incarnate—who suffers unto death, alone and betrayed, carrying the burden of cosmic injustice on his back. And in doing so, he reverses the meaning of suffering itself.
To read the Bible from the middle—looking only for comfort or justifications—is to misunderstand its entire architecture. The narrative only coheres from the end. The Gospels point to Golgotha, not to therapy. And while there is infinite mercy in Christ’s sacrifice, it is not granted automatically to those who live without responsibility and attempt to “time” a final confession on their deathbed.
Carl Jung understood this principle deeply. He wrote:
“There is no coming to consciousness without pain.”
(Aion, §225)
He also warned against pseudo-transformations—false conversions or declarations of change unbacked by enduring struggle. In biblical terms, these are the hollow cries of the unrepentant heart. They are not salvific acts but egoic escape tactics masquerading as faith.
As Jesus himself warns in Matthew 7:21–23:
“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven… I will declare to them, ‘I never knew you.’”
The implication is sobering. Spiritual transformation is not performative. It is not declarative. It is experiential and sacrificial. It is lived suffering aligned with love, not a spoken password.
That is why the most severe warning in all Scripture is not against murder or theft—but against blasphemy of the Holy Spirit. In Matthew 12:31–32:
“Every sin and blasphemy will be forgiven people, but the blasphemy against the Spirit will not be forgiven…”
This is not a random sin. It is the rejection of divine truth when it is fully known. It is the willing denial of the highest value—the deliberate turning away from the Initial Aim when one recognizes it fully. It is betrayal of the Imago Dei moment.
That is why living with strategic sin and planned repentance is not just morally hollow—it is ontologically inverted. It aligns one not with the story of Christ, but with the story of Judas.
In Axiomatology, this is existentially clear: the narrative of meaning cannot be rewritten at the last second. The end reinterprets the middle, but only if the middle was structurally aiming toward the right end. There is no redemption without trajectory. Meaning comes through suffering carried with fidelity. Resurrection is only granted to the one who has already walked toward the Cross.
The Whore of Babylon Riding the Beast of Revelation: Modern Reincarnation in Sugar-Daddy Culture
Of course, many in today’s West will scoff at any attempt to reintroduce biblical symbolism into cultural analysis. “The Bible is old irrelevant book,” they say. “Jesus Christ can go to Hell,” (or as one sad fallen Sugar-Babe put it “JC can * himself.”). In its place, we’re told to “live your truth,” “choose happiness,” and “stay in your own timeline.” These slogans are not just linguistic cotton candy—they reflect the postmodern revolt against all grand narratives, against any conception of sacred order, sacrifice, or moral law. What remains is a culture of aestheticism, pleasure, and fluid self-justification, unconcerned with the consequences of betrayal or collapse.
But Scripture has already told this story. It plays out in Revelation 17:1–6, where we see the infamous image of the Whore of Babylon:
“Then I saw a woman sitting on a scarlet beast that was full of blasphemous names... The woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet... and on her forehead was written a name of mystery: 'Babylon the Great, Mother of Prostitutes and of Earth's Abominations.’"
This isn’t just eschatological poetry. It’s prophetic sociology. It names the inversion of covenant into consumption. And in our time, it is perhaps most vividly expressed in the rise of the Sugar Daddy–Sugar Baby dynamic: the transactional fusion of female youth and male economic power—lust riding capital.
Picture it: A man in his 60s, powerful, wealthy, once or twice divorced, enters a relationship with a woman in her late 20s or early 30s. He offers protection, access, experiences, car-rent, paid trips—she offers youth, beauty, and often sex. Neither lives together. Neither plans to marry. Neither builds a family. And neither has any intention of sacrifice.
It is a hollow union of mutual consumption masquerading as intimacy. Symbolically, the woman “rides” the man—but it is the man who owns the saddle. She leverages her decaying sexual capital to access material privilege. He uses economic dominance to extract youth, validation, and the fantasy of virility. This is not love—it is a contract of aesthetic utility.
Often, these relationships are wrapped in farcical rationalizations:
“He looks really young and he’s also biologically younger than his age.”
“I didn’t even know he was rich at first.”
“Actually, I’m using him— I did get the free tickets and the car-lease! I swear I am really happy!”
These are comical deflections—thin veneers of dignity pasted over existential collapse. The truth is simple: it is a sterile, disintegrative inversion of sacred union. It cannot produce new life—only decorate the decay.
Induced illusion of morality
Not only are these rationalizations false—they’re knowingly false. Both parties are aware, at some level, that the narrative they present is a mask. While one can modify external appearance to seem younger, there is no scientific correlation between youthful looks and biological longevity. The harsh anatomical reality remains: the Sugar Daddy will likely die much earlier than the Sugar Babe. And in a universe where transactional intimacy has replaced generative commitment, that leaves each party haunted by a different ghost—his is death, hers is future rejection and isolation.
The Sugar Daddy often dresses in youthful, stylish clothes, speaks in the language of wellness, and self-induces the fantasy that his “true age” is 10–20 years younger. This is textbook terror management theory—a psychological defense mechanism triggered by the awareness of mortality.
And the classic Sugar Babe defense, “I didn’t know he was rich,” is laughable at every level. In nearly every case, wealth is not only visible—it’s deliberately showcased. Houses, apartments, cars, exotic vacations, and the passive permission to use those assets during the seduction phase—these are not accidents. They are silent promises. The Sugar Babe does not fall in love with the man; she is preconditioned by the lifestyle. The proof? The love vanishes the moment the money does.
There are practically no cases where a young, healthy, dignified woman desires a man around 25 years her senior with no financial power. Run that scenario as a mental experiment: the exact same man, stripped of status and money, is seen as little more than a “creepy old guy.” The money is the Voldemort of the arrangement—it must never be named, but it defines everything.
Even the claim “I am using him” is just another smoke screen. Sugar Babes often defend the dynamic by highlighting emotional perks: “He’s not intrusive,” “He listens,” “He’s always there for me.” But these are not gifts freely given—they’re part of the trade. For a man nearing the end of his lifespan, there is no cost in listening or being emotionally available—especially when the reward is sex, youth, and the illusion of power over time itself. For the Sugar Babe, this is not emotional intimacy. It is soft-core prostitution with prettier wrapping.
And that’s the honest distinction: prostitutes usually do not lie to themselves. They know it's a transaction. They don’t confuse their service for romance. That’s precisely why many high-status men consider prostitutes more authentic and straightforward than Sugar Babes—who perform the same exchange while pretending it isn’t one.
Unlike traditional marriage, which grounds itself in covenant, generativity, and moral responsibility, this kind of arrangement is:
Sterile – anti-child, anti-sacrifice, anti-legacy.
Rootless – built on short-term pleasure, not enduring commitment.
Disintegrative – eroding the soul of both parties over time.
Revelation says the Whore wears scarlet and gold. In our age, she wears Cartier and and rides the car leased by the man. Her intoxication is not wine, but aesthetic power and emotional detachment. “Drunk on the blood of the saints” becomes numb to the death of love. “Full of blasphemous names” becomes fluent in irony, mockery, and moral relativism. She proudly rejects holiness and calls it empowerment. She flaunts inversion and calls it freedom.
Just to clarify what typically defines these transactional arrangements in practical terms, we can outline seven recurring traits observed across countless cases. This is not intended as condemnation—simply recognition of patterns that speak for themselves.
There is a significant generational gap—the man is usually around 25 years or more older than the woman, often about as old as her father or his generational peers.
If the age gap were reversed—that is, if the same number of years were subtracted from the woman’s age to imagine a male partner of that age—the scenario would either be predatory, bordering on pedophilic, or biologically impossible: the man simply wouldn’t exist yet.
The man is never poor. He is wealthy, powerful, and status-laden. Strip away that status, and the same man becomes invisible—or worse, repulsive.
The Sugar Babe receives clear financial benefits—exotic travel, leased cars, access to upscale properties, exclusive events. These are not side effects; they are the currency of the exchange.
The Sugar Daddy almost always has a failed marriage behind him, or remains in a sterile, emotionally depleted union. Either way, he’s lost faith in family as a moral structure and now sees marriage as either a burden or an unattainable ideal.
There is no long-term commitment or intention to build a family. Often, the man explicitly avoids defining the relationship at all, preferring fluidity and plausible deniability.
To shield the arrangement from moral critique, both parties often adopt a vague “spiritual” vocabulary—words like “oneness,” “alignment,” or “acceptance” become substitutes for real values. But as we’ll explore later, this is usually just a clever mask for a hedonistic and self-serving lifestyle.
But there is no true agency in this inversion. The story is old. The archetype is exhausted. And the ending is always the same: despair, loneliness, emotional ruin.
Babylon always collapses.
The Unhappy End of the Sugar Babe: The Whore Devoured by the Beast
No matter how thoroughly the women in these arrangements rationalize their position, reinterpret their motives, or use euphemisms like “mutual partnership,” the structure of the transaction reveals itself over time. Many would rather face social death than be accurately named sugar baby—let alone Whore of Babylon—but naming the essence does not depend on one’s willingness to accept it. Axiologically, the narrative tells itself.
In these modern “symbiotic” arrangements, the cost is disproportionately carried by the woman. She loses her grounding in self-value, increasingly becomes anxious about her bodily appearance, and often experiences existential fragmentation. Her youth and sex appeal—which are treated as capital—begin to fade. With them, her leverage vanishes. In place of intimacy, there is performance. In place of growth, there is regression. In place of generativity, there is decay.
What follows is usually a deepening of psychological splitting:
Surface Narrative: “This is empowerment. I am in control.”
Inner Reality: “I am being used. And I am complicit.”
This duality often leads to archetypal possession: the Lilith Complex, the Dark Feminine, the Whore of Babylon not as metaphor but as internalized identity structure. She becomes performatively empowered yet emotionally alienated, increasingly numb, anxious, and hard. Attachment becomes more difficult, trust more fragile. True love and lasting bonds recede further into impossibility.
The biblical story captures this arc with stark precision.
“The ten horns you saw, and the beast, will hate the prostitute. They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked; they will eat her flesh and burn her with fire. For God has put it into their hearts to accomplish his purpose... until God’s words are fulfilled.”
— Revelation 17:16–17
The symbolism is not subtle. The woman who rides the beast is eventually devoured by it. Lust, when fused with power without value, consumes the very subject it once served. She becomes expendable, then discarded—first ornamented, then stripped, then burnt.
This is not metaphor for entertainment. It is an archetypal pattern, observable in thousands of lives. The Beast she once believed she controlled—power, money, patriarchal capital—turns on her with vengeance. She is not protected by it. She is consumed by it.
The arc completes itself: what begins as glamor ends as ruin. What is proclaimed as freedom ends in spiritual enslavement. What once felt like agency ends in archetypal possession.
Babylon is not just a city. It is a spirit. And all spirits demand sacrifice. The price paid by the sugar babe is not just beauty or youth, but the slow erosion of her soul.
The Unhappy End of the Sugar Daddy: The Beast Devours Itself
Just as the modern sugar baby resists her naming with layers of emotional rationalization and pseudo-empowerment, so does the sugar daddy. The men who inhabit this role—often in their late 50s or early 60s—frequently carry with them the debris of failed marriages, unresolved betrayal, and decades of willful blindness. Many have watched their wives drift into the arms of younger lovers while maintaining a delusion of control. When the illusion collapses, what emerges is not renewal, but a cynical inversion: much like Cain killing Abel, these men murder their own ideal—marriage—and surrender to lust disguised as freedom.
Their psychological structure follows a distinct path:
Addiction to novelty.
Pathological need for control.
Fear of death masked by sexual conquest.
Regression into narcissism.
These men often console themselves with absurdities like, “My biological age is twenty years younger,” or “She keeps me young.” But behind these clichés lies a deeper wound: the fear that they have become irrelevant—both erotically and existentially. Rather than face the truth with dignity and rebuild through value, they choose archetypal regression. They do not become kings. They become satyrs. They do not age into wisdom. They rot into consumption.
Their archetypal possession is clear: The Tyrant, The Satyr, The Hollowed Patriarch—a man who once had moral capital but now leases it in exchange for flattery, skin, and forgetfulness. The transactional nature of his new “relationships” is not intimacy—it is anesthesia.
And just like the Whore of Babylon, the Beast too has an ending.
“Then I saw the beast and the kings of the earth with their armies gathered to make war against the rider on the horse [Christ]… But the beast was captured, and with it the false prophet… The two of them were thrown alive into the fiery lake of burning sulfur.”
— Revelation 19:19–20
The moral is piercingly clear: evil is not unified—it turns on itself. The Whore is destroyed by the Beast. The Beast is burned by the judgment of heaven. False power may parade for a while, but its end is not only inevitable—it is fitting. It ends where all unaligned narratives end: in fire, in shame, in the void of meaning.
The Sugar Daddy does not “win” in the end. He dies hollow. The transactional goddess he rides turns cold. His once-commanding power becomes caricature. His youth fades, his lust becomes grotesque, and when the illusion collapses, all that remains is a man—alone, unloved, unremembered by the eternal.
And that, too, is a form of hell.
The story of the Beast is not just prophecy—it is pattern. And the wise will recognize its repetition across generations.
Sodomisation as the Violation of Sacred Hospitality
In both interpersonal dynamics and civilizational trajectories, few acts signal such utter collapse of moral architecture as the violation of sacred hospitality. In the metaphysical framework of Axiomatic Divine Hospitality Dialectics (ADHD), hospitality is not a social nicety—it is a covenant with the divine. To open a sacred space, particularly in its highest form—sexual or spiritual union—is to engage in a cosmic contract. When that contract is broken through betrayal, desecration, or consumption, the punishment is not merely moral; it is ontological.
This is not about conservative norms or theological prescriptions. It is about rupturing the architecture of the cosmos itself. To violate hospitality—especially when it concerns the body, the home, or divine intention—is to shatter the very symmetry of metaphysical order. What was meant to be a site of transformation becomes a site of distortion. Instead of new life, we get inversion. Instead of concrescence, disintegration.
Dante’s Ninth Circle: The Frozen Logic of Betrayal
Dante’s Inferno captures this metaphysical horror in the frozen wastes of the Ninth Circle—Ptolomea—reserved for those who betray guests and hosts. Named after Ptolemy, the biblical figure who invited guests to a feast and murdered them, this circle is not just a poetic metaphor. It is a theological and psychological diagnosis. The traitors here are not merely punished after death—their souls are cast into Hell before their bodies die:
“Their bodies on earth continue to function—animated by demons—while their true selves are already frozen in damnation.”
This aligns perfectly with ADHD’s theory of stillborn synthesis: when a host opens sacred space, and divine potential enters, but the act ends not in elevation but devouring. It is not just sin—it is anti-creation. The occasion becomes not a node of transformation but a black hole of meaning.
The Archetypal Scene: Genesis 19 and the Men of Sodom
The biblical archetype of this metaphysical crime is found in Genesis 19:1–11, the infamous scene of Sodom. Lot, acting as the righteous host, invites two divine visitors—angels in human form—into his home. He offers them food, rest, and protection: the very heart of divine hospitality.
“He insisted strongly... He prepared a meal for them, baking bread without yeast, and they ate.” (Genesis 19:3, NIV)
But then, inversion: the men of Sodom surround the house and demand the guests for sexual consumption.
“Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us so that we can have sex with them.” (Genesis 19:5, NIV)
This is not merely deviant desire—it is ritual desecration, the devouring of what is sacred. In ADHD terms, this is the archetype of the anti-Guest, the perverter of the sacred space, the one who does not seek union but domination. The city of Sodom becomes the womb of anti-hospitality: a place where the sacred is not welcomed but consumed.
And the consequence? It is not arbitrary wrath—it is metaphysical necessity. Sodom must collapse, because the structure it once hosted—the possibility for divine-human synthesis—has been defiled beyond repair. as
The Internal Logic of the Punishment
In Axiomatology, such violations carry intrinsic punishment. It is not that God “sends” fire arbitrarily—rather, the structure of being itself demands collapse. Betrayal of hospitality, especially in its sexual or familial forms, severs the possibility of regeneration. The event—the node—is poisoned. The soul of the violator begins to fragment. The capacity for synthesis, for union with the divine, starts to wither. What follows is spiritual paralysis, moral amnesia, and infinite cascading vectors of dissonance.
The punishment is therefore not symbolic. It is ontological fallout. It unfolds in time, but it originates in eternity.
Collapse from a Half-Century of Cultural Sodomisation
The disintegration of traditional Western values cannot be traced to a single cause, but its trajectory over the past half-century resembles a brutal and systematic sodomisation of meaning. What began as legitimate calls for reform—civil rights, greater autonomy, women’s liberation—was soon co-opted by ideological extremism. The very foundations of Western civilization—rooted in Christian metaphysics, hierarchical moral structures, and the sanctity of family—were not merely questioned, but desecrated.
This cultural unraveling gave rise to what we now live in: a spiritually hollow, self-referential, postmodern matrix where transactional sexuality masquerades as empowerment, and permanent adolescence is called freedom.
Radical postmodernism, with its allergy to absolutes, and fourth-wave feminism, with its doctrinal vagueness and inner contradictions, have created more psychological fragmentation among women than the worst patriarchal regimes ever could. The result is not liberation, but internal incoherence: women told they must be goddesses, mothers, sex symbols, CEOs, and spiritual healers—all at once—and without any guiding hierarchy.
The paradox is this: in rejecting the so-called oppressive structures of the past, many modern women have been left structureless—untethered from both reality and meaning. They’ve been sold the myth of boundless freedom only to wake up, too often in their thirties, unmarried, disoriented, and dependent on the validation of sugar-daddy dynamics that reflect neither empowerment nor equality, but a spiritual void filled with aesthetic and economic exchange.
No amount of spiritual bypassing—via Instagram yoga poses or pop-Buddhist slogans—can restore what’s been lost: the axiomatic center of life lived in alignment with divine order, sacrificial love, and multi-generational continuity.
Foucault and the Misdiagnosis of Madness
Even Michel Foucault, whose critiques of institutional power helped spark many of these cultural shifts, would likely recoil at what now parades as freedom. Foucault’s personal life—marked by violent excess and unchecked predation—is often separated from his academic legacy. But one must wonder: if he saw what his own legacy had become—a global psychosexual inversion ritual unmoored from beauty, goodness, or truth—would even he have questioned his methods?
Western culture has not just become post-Christian—it has become anti-Christian, and worse, anti-form. It celebrates transgression as a virtue, inversion as enlightenment, and chaos as the only stable category. This is not liberation; this is the nihilistic climax of a society that has exhausted its metaphysical capital and replaced it with ideological derivatives—commodified, performative, and void of cosmic weight.
Ronald Reagan once said: “The trouble with our liberal friends is not that they’re ignorant; it’s just that they know so much that isn’t so.” What we face today is far deeper: not ignorance, but epistemic possession. Ideologies masquerade as wisdom. Academic nihilism dresses itself up in moral garb. Identity replaces value. Structure is replaced by slogans.
And young women, far from being elevated by this cultural landscape, are too often sacrificed on the altar of infinite possibility—induced into a performative pluralism that leaves them relationally fractured, spiritually famished, and ontologically homeless.
There Is Marriage and Family — and Then There Is Everything Else
The issue is not merely the plurality of chaotic relationship forms—be they polyamorous experiments, tantric “orgy-love,” swinger-style pseudo-marriages, or the infamous sugar-daddy arrangements that mirror Revelation’s image of the Whore of Babylon riding the Beast. These are all symptoms—manifestations of a deeper pathology, not its root.
The true crisis is the destruction of the ideal.
Most sugar daddies likely once believed in marriage. But like Cain in the Book of Genesis, when faced with rejection, failure, or relational disillusionment, they did not turn inward to repair the self—they turned outward to kill the ideal. Just as Cain murdered Abel not simply out of envy but out of metaphysical defiance, many today murder the possibility of moral covenant when they abandon family for appetite. The cultural sodomite is not defined by sexual behavior, but by existential rejection of the sacred.
And this is indeed one of the oldest stories ever told.
The hard truth must be named without compromise: there is marriage and family—and then there is everything else. There is no alternative. There are only distortions, derivatives, or spiritual forgeries of this one foundational form.
The nuclear family, properly formed and sustained, is a living trinitarian symbol. It is not a social construct—it is a metaphysical pattern. At its base lies the fusion of plurality into unity, a reflection of divine order. The top-down moral law, the Father, intersects with bottom-up embodiment in the Son—manifesting as sacrificial, embodied behavior. The Spirit is their shared identity: invisible, powerful, the glue of mutual fidelity and memory.
This is not theological poetry—it is axiomatic structure. Even the form of the cross reaffirms it: vertical transcendence (truth, order, sacrifice) meets horizontal immanence (relationship, love, continuity). The suffering is not incidental—it is integral. A family held together in this world will be nailed to something: mocked by the cultural sodomites, seduced by the gospel of comfort, and tested in the fires of betrayal and fatigue. But it will also be the only form that resurrects.
We are not free to invent alternatives. The spiritual consequences of doing so are not abstract—they are intergenerational collapse, soul-deformation, and the slow death of meaning. Those who abandon or attack the ideal do not merely risk failure—they become warnings.
So let this be clear: even if only a handful can still uphold it, even if the world mocks and devours those who try, the ideal must be preserved. Not because it is easy. But because it is true. And because it is the only form through which life—real life—can still emerge.
Postmodernism at the core of the Sugar-Daddy/Sugar Babe relationship
When confronted with moral criticism, both the Sugar Daddy and the so-called Babylonian Whore often reflexively adopt a normative tone—ironically posturing as defenders of tradition. “It’s natural and normal,” they claim. “Men have always provided for women. He’s simply older, wiser, and responsible—it’s true masculinity, you know!” This appeal to ancestral norms is presented as a shield against critique, even though the very structure of the relationship—its temporality, asymmetry, and refusal of covenant—betrays those same norms at their foundation. The moment one highlights the lack of family trajectory, the absence of mutual sacrifice, or the generational age gap that defies intersubjective parity, the normative argument collapses into incoherence.
To expose the contradiction, one might simply ask: If the age roles were reversed, would it still be acceptable? That is, imagine a 60+ year-old woman financially “providing companionship” for a young man in his 30s. They often affirm, “Sure, why not? Love is love.” But when presented with a strictly symmetrical age gap—such that the woman would be “dating” a male who is not yet an adult or not even born—the absurdity reveals itself. The same people recoil in horror, rightly identifying the relationship as inappropriate or even predatory ped***ilia. What they fail to realize is that this response reveals a hidden metaphysics: they do believe in boundaries—they just apply them selectively.
And this is where the postmodern rot is most apparent. The essence of fourth-wave feminism and its Foucauldian relativism is the dissolving of all fixed structures: morality is fluid, age is fluid, gender is fluid, power is performative, and context is king. Truth, in this schema, is never stable—it is always contingent on desire. In this view, even sacred forms like family or covenantal love are not wrong when desecrated—they are simply irrelevant if inconvenient. The highest value is the sovereignty of personal whim. Everything is negotiable, except the right to self-gratification.
Thus, the sugar arrangement isn’t simply immoral—it is postmoral. It disintegrates meaning by pretending to preserve it. It appropriates the aesthetics of tradition (provider/protected), but hollows them out with consumer logic. It dresses exploitation in velvet, appreciates trips to foreign countries, signs the car-lease, and calls it freedom.
That’s why the sugar-daddy/sugar-babe contract is not just a modern vice—it is the perfect crystallization of postmodern metaphysics: an egoic masquerade pretending to be archetypal. It believes in nothing, honors nothing, and replaces structure with spectacle. And like all lies about love, it ends in spiritual exhaustion, not intimacy.
Who Is Adogmatic “Spirituality” Actually Serving?
When we return to the Axiomatological principle that the center of one’s life is not the self, but rather the narrative they embody, we gain a sharper lens through which to view the explosion of modern spiritual practices in the West. Neo-Taoism, Westernized yoga culture, diluted Buddhist concepts, and vague mystical cosmologies now saturate daily life. No one dares to name it clearly, but these systems have rushed to fill the vacuum left by the destruction of traditional values—especially those surrounding marriage, family, and personal moral responsibility.
Let’s be clear: there is nothing inherently wrong with yoga or spiritual practices. The problem is not the activity, but the philosophical vacuum it conceals. These “spiritual lifestyles” often act as ideal environments for one specific type of psychological condition: those who want a meaningful identity without any binding obligation.
It is not fidelity to the nuclear family or marital commitment that such ideologies promote. It is not moral accountability or submission to a divine hierarchy. It is not any structured restriction that encourages guilt when you offer less than you are capable of. Instead, this culture promotes a gentle dissociation from duty. It says, “take it easy,” “trust the energies of the universe,” “flow in the game of life.” In practice, it becomes an anesthetic—blunting the conscience under the banner of “presence.”
And who benefits? It becomes, often quite literally, the ideal meeting ground for the Sugar Daddy and the Disillusioned Betty-from-Mulholland-Drive type: an affluent man drifting through failed marriage wreckage, and a young woman sold on the postmodern promise that “the world is her oyster.” Why does this pairing happen so frequently in “spiritual” circles? Because the cultural message has already disarmed both parties of any binding metaphysical structure. They are taught that self-sacrifice is oppressive, and that dogma is violence.
In this climate, fidelity is dismissed as possessiveness, hierarchy is rebranded as toxic, and commitment is seen as incompatible with “growth.” The result is not spiritual enlightenment—it is the perfect philosophical ecosystem for self-indulgence masquerading as mysticism. When there is no higher value to submit to—no telos beyond the self—then the only thing being served... is the self.
That is the great unspoken truth of this form of adogmatic spirituality: it looks like surrender, but it is the ultimate act of control. It claims to dissolve the ego, but it actually cements the ego as the highest god. “I’m not religious, but I’m spiritual,” has become the universal get-out-of-morality-free card, the modern equivalent of moral laundering—justifying indulgence through vague claims of “alignment,” “energy,” or “oneness.” It’s not about God. It’s not about others. It’s about keeping options open, seeking pleasure, and demanding peace without the price of responsibility.
Bob Dylan once sang:
“You’re gonna have to serve somebody.
It may be the devil or it may be the Lord,
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody.”
And in this case, the one being served is the Self. No amount of incense, Sanskrit, or smiling detachment changes that. The collapse of family, the dissolution of marriage, and the slow moral degradation of our culture are not accidents—they are the fruits of an ethos that worships self-preservation over self-sacrifice.
If nothing is holy, and all is “a game of life”, then everything becomes hollow. And a hollow civilization cannot last.
Sugardaddy–Babylonian Whore Culture vs. Reconstruction
It’s a quiet revolution—yet undeniable. More and more people, even within the strongholds of woke corporate culture, are quietly defecting from the ideology of nihilistic pleasure-seeking. These “new rebels” aren’t storming barricades or cancelling speakers—they are doing something far more radical: choosing one partner, marriage, children, and family.
In a world that screams freedom through fragmentation and limitless options, it’s now a revolutionary act to simply say:
“I don’t want polyamory. I don’t want a Sugar Daddy. I don’t want aesthetic spirituality without truth. I want loyalty, structure, and something that lasts.”
The very fact that this sounds extreme today doesn’t say much about the essence of these choices—it only shows how far we’ve fallen.
The Sugardaddy–Babylonian Whore culture leads, inevitably and predictably, to the collapse of the family system, the erosion of trust between the sexes, and the rise of spiritual nihilism—a void carefully masked by high-end aesthetics, vague mysticism, and self-help mantras. It's the age-old pattern of Babylonian values in modern form: fame, wealth, lust without consequence, masked as "liberation."
But there’s no sustainable story of a life if it's built on the plurality of infinite meanings. You cannot build eternity on endless options.
The spiritual logic is clear and universal:
Pride → Focus on the self and the present moment.
Corruption → Collapse of values, rise of Sugardaddy–Babylonian Whore dynamics.
Judgment → No family, no children, no trust, no future.
Fall → Exactly where we are right now.
This is not a novel observation—it’s the oldest narrative known to civilization. No empire built on blood and gold stands forever. The fall of Rome, the decadence of Weimar, the dissolution of postmodern West—it all follows the same logic. Dylan forsaw it when he sang: “There’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend…”
But what’s remarkable—perhaps even hopeful—is the silent reconstruction now underway. You see it in young couples who say no to sexual chaos and yes to monogamy. In families reclaiming Sabbath rituals. In fathers returning home—not just physically, but spiritually. In young women rejecting self-objectification and reclaiming maternal power as tradwives. In young boys crawling out of incel roles and genuinely enjoying the company of girls their age who prefer Oppenheimerto Barbie. (I witnessed one such moment today: two boys were checking the social media account of a girl who had sparked their interest. I spoke with them, and they dared to admit it. Small steps...)
They may not yet know the full history, but they feel it: the Axiomatological traction of sustainability. This is not nostalgia—it’s an ontological pull toward order. That feeling is a prehension—an intuitive resonance with the Initial Aim. Even if unconscious, it guides them toward a path that aligns structure, sacrifice, and identity.
According to Axiomatology, each moment is an entity, a potential source of nexus where physical reality, value hierarchy (SIVH), and moral potential converge. Every moment becomes a moral crossroad. Each decision—no matter how small—contains the possibility of integration or disintegration. We are not passive onlookers. We are participants in a cosmic drama. And the script is unwritten.
Responsibility is not something we shed to find peace.
It is the very mechanism by which we build eternity.
The future will not be reclaimed by grand ideologies or perfect systems. It will be rebuilt moment by moment, node by node, through the choices of real people aligning with sacred order. This is how civilizations are rebuilt—from inside the heart outward, through families, through vows, through lives lived in truth.
