If I could write something to spill out all I want to say, I’d leave the page empty. Why the hell am I writing then? You may ask. For the same reason I do everything I do, for no damn reason.

That’s the whole problem, and there’s no problem at all. The thing is, I’m far beyond it, even though I never overcame it. The problem simply never existed, if it ever did, I’ve never been able to see it.

Everything is so tasteless, I don’t know why I do what I do, who I do it for, or what the fuck!
I’m simply done, and it seems that I haven’t even started.

I won’t hide behind my characters anymore, I’m the psychopath behind the psychopath on the paper, and I’m much more dangerous, for nothing is worse than a psychopath that understands feelings, nothing is worse than a psychopath that suffocates you with those feelings.

To those who I once let them get close enough to me, I bet that I’m the face you see whenever misery is devouring you, I either come as your angel or your demon.

You know the worst part about it? It means nothing. Your whole world revolves around me, and I’m nothing, never will be.

I don’t desire anything, yet for some sick reason I pretend to do. I don’t care about your agony, I don’t care if you burn a thousand times in front of me, yet, I send you a thousand hearts.

You all walk around in ecstasy, as if you had a taste of the devine, holy me has touched your souls, holy me has shown you all, when all I’ve ever done was fill your empty page with more emptiness.

Mohammad Mouselmani

Author Mohammad Mouselmani

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