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.
