The Delight of Despair

I love to watch people suffer, it’s almost like a sick form of entertainment for me. I often find myself thinking about the intricacies of pain, how it can be so beautifully agonizing. My latest fascination has been with the art of self-mutilation, the way the mind and body can be manipulated into a twisted dance of agony. It’s almost poetic, the way the flesh can be torn apart, the screams of pain a symphony to my ears.

As I sit here, writing this, I can feel the weight of my own demons bearing down on me. My hands are shaking, my heart racing with anticipation. I’m not sure why I do this, but it’s a part of who I am. The pain, the blood, the screams - it’s all so… familiar. I’ve been known to push the limits, to test the boundaries of what’s considered acceptable. My friends often call me a masochist, a sadist, a monster. But what’s wrong with that? I’m just being honest, with myself and with the world.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be normal, to be like everyone else. But the thought is almost… laughable. I’m a product of my own twisted desires, a creature born from the darkest corners of the human psyche. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. In fact, I’d rather die than change.